Twenty-two attack weapons, plus the fifty mini-rockets in the tail — the weapons on Old Dog Two could outfit four or five modern F-15 or F-11 fighter-bombers. The aged B-52 bomber — this particular airframe first rolled off the assembly line in 1963—had been given a new lease on life, ensuring its usefulness in a major combat role beyond the year 2000.
“One minute to start countermeasures,” the navigator, Captain Alicia Kellerman, reported. The call shook Carter out of his reverie. It was so easy to slip into a sort of hypnotic trance flying this beast — it was as quiet as an airliner and as comfortable as the leather recliner back in his own living room.
Carter checked the threat radar display projected onto his windscreen after first tearing his attention away from the sight of the iridescent dark green sea rushing past as they skimmed only a hundred feet above the Caribbean. A green dome not far in the distance signified their first electronic barrier, the surveillance and GCI radar at Puerto Cabezas, the large combined Soviet-Nicaraguan airbase on the Nicaraguan northeast coast. They were aiming right for the northern edge of the dome, but because of the interference from the sand dunes and marshes of Punta Gorda they were able to fly just under the radar coverage. But in less than sixty seconds they would lose the protection of even that low spit of land.
Carter hit the voice-command button on his control stick. “Set countermeasures release switches to consent,” he said in a slight Louisiana bayou accent, reaccented and measured to make it easier for the voice-command computer to understand his voice. It was a humorous problem back in the early years of the project, he recalled — he refused to believe he was the problem when the computer continually rejected his commands during testing.
“Pilot’s countermeasures release consent,” the computer confirmed. Then to warn the rest of the crew about the move, the computer came on shipwide interphone and announced, “Caution; pilot release consent.”
“Coming up on SCM point, crew,” Kellerman said.
“Caution; radar navigator release consent,” the computer said.
“You’re all a bit early,” the electronic-warfare officer, Captain Robert Atkins, said.
“If it hits the fan up here,” Carter said, watching the green radar sky slowly inching down on top of him, “I don’t want to be fumbling with switches.”
“Amen,” radar navigator Captain Paul Scott chimed in.
Just then Carter heard, “Caution; electronic warfare release consent. Warning; weapon release consent complete.” The last safety interlock belonging to Robert Atkins had been removed.
They were sixty miles from the coastline, about seventy-five miles northeast of Puerto Cabezas. This part of the mission was almost as crucial as the attack phase. For the next one hundred twenty miles until they reached the Cordillera Isabella mountains in north-central Nicaragua, they were vulnerable to attack — no mountains to hide in, only marshes and featureless lowlands — and they would be in range of the powerful search radar at Puerto Cabezas. Although the exact strength of the defenses was unknown they had been briefed to expect SA-10 air-defense missiles, MiG-29 and MiG-23 fighters to be operating in the no-man’s land before them.
But at least this sortie had been planned to challenge those defenses. They were not relying on air cover, nor were they taking advantage of overflying friendly territory. This mission was designed as much for effect as well as results — the idea that a large American strike aircraft could make it across Nicaragua and strike a heavily defended target was planned to demoralize and confuse as much as it was to destroy.
The green radar dome had almost touched them. “I show contact with that search radar any second,” Carter called out. “Clear all weapons for release. Station check and report by compartment when ready.”
Nancy Cheshire performed the pilot’s station check, choosing not to rely on the computer to check switch positions but doing the checks visually. She was the first female test pilot at HAWC and one of the first ever anywhere; and the public attention she had attracted three years earlier at the beginning of the Mega-fortress Plus program had threatened to undermine her goal to be the best pilot in the organization.
“Offense ready,” Scott reported.
“Defense ready,” Atkins responded.
“Station check complete; Kel, warning light coming on,” Nancy reported as she hit the EJECT press-to-test button. The last item on the list.
Carter looked at the small, red-haired woman for a moment, studying her face underneath her lightweight flyer’s helmet. “How you doing over there?” he asked cross-cockpit.
She looked back at him. “I’m scared to death, Kel.” But she sounded more angry than scared. “And why don’t you ask anyone else if they’re scared?”
“Because you’re my copilot,” Carter shot back. “That’s all. Hell, I never know what you’re thinking and you’re wrong …”
His attention was pulled away from his copilot as he watched the green dome descend over his aircraft like some unearthly fog. “Caution; search radar, ten o’clock,” the computer reported.
“I’ve got a second search radar, ten o’clock, estimated range sixty miles,” Atkins reported. “Search and height-finder … looks like our shoreline SA-10. Hasn’t found us yet, though.”
“Take it out, EW,” Carter said. “Jam the search radar — I don’t want to be tracked by anyone out here over water. Kory, send a warning message on the HAWC satellite net. Tell ‘em we’re coming.”
“Roger,” Master Sergeant Kory Karbayjal, the crew gunner and defense systems officer, replied, flipping down the SATCOM keyboard and punching commands to send the preformatted message out on the satellite channel.
“Kel?”
Carter turned to Cheshire.
“Thanks for asking,” she said, giving the control stick a slight shake.
Carter nodded, lowered his oxygen visor and checked his system. “Get on oxygen.” She raised her mask.
“Stand by for missile launch, crew,” Atkins said. “Radar programming complete. I need a hundred feet, pilot.”
“Rog.” Carter pulled back on the control stick, manually flying the Megafortress Plus a hundred feet higher. “Set.”
“Rainbow away,” Atkins called out.
The Rainbow was the AGM-136 Tacit Rainbow air-to-ground missile, a subsonic winged drone aircraft with a small jet engine that could seek out and destroy enemy radars. If the enemy radar was operating, it would home in and destroy it with a one-hundred-pound high-explosive warhead; if it did not detect a radar it would orbit within ten miles of the target area until a signal was detected, then fly toward it and destroy it. So even if the enemy radar was shut off or moved, the missile could still seek out and destroy.
Carter shielded his eyes from the sudden glare of the AGM-136’s engine exhaust as the missile appeared briefly past the long pointed nose of the Megafortress Plus, banked left, then disappeared into the darkness. Just then the green-radar warning “sky” projected onto the windscreen changed to yellow.
“Tracking radar,” Atkins called out over the computerized warning voice. “SA-10, ten o’clock. I’m getting warning messages on UHF and VHF GUARD channels.” The yellow sky seemed to undulate, then disappear and reappear at long intervals, showing the effectiveness of Atkins’s jamming.
Kellerman activated her navigation radar. “Land fall in two minutes. First terrain, fifteen miles, not a factor at this altitude. First high terrain twenty-five miles, starting to paint over it.” She plotted her position on a chart, cross-checked it with the GPS satellite navigation readout, then turned the radar to standby.