Unchallenged.
The North American Aerospace Defense command, headquartered deep in Cheyenne Mountain outside of Colorado Springs, allowed them to slip unnoticed in and out of the country simply because the Mako and MakoShark craft of McKenna’s 1st Aerospace Squadron belonged to NORAD.
Besides which, unless Kevin McKenna activated his modified IFF — Identify Friend or Foe — transponder, the radar sites lining the American borders never saw him.
The MakoShark utilized every facet of stealth technology in her construction. Internal ribs were cast of honeycombed carbon-impregnated fiberglass that reflected radar probes at odd angles, and not back to the radar transmitter. The skin of the craft was also carbon-impregnated plastic and coated in a midnight-blue paint containing microscopic iron balls which conducted electricity and deterred radar reflection. Radar signals slithered around on the surface of the MakoShark, instead of bouncing back. The radar cross-section (RCS) was so slim that the craft had to be within five miles of a powerful conventional radar before she returned a signal, and that signal was weak enough to go unnoticed.
When the lights of Pierre, South Dakota, appeared below his nose, McKenna prepared to start his jet engines. The Pratt and Whitney J-101s were an advanced design of the JT11D engines used in the retired SR-71 Blackbird. Normally turbofan engines with 39,000 pounds of thrust each, flexible cones in the air intakes enabled the engines to operate in a ram-jet mode. The elongated, triangular cones were segmented for expansion and contraction, and when pulsing, they controlled the air flow into the intakes, ramming compressed air into the engines. The ram-jets, which almost doubled the output thrust, were used at high altitude, up to around 110,000 feet.
Airstarts were not possible in the ram-jet mode, and McKenna had learned that the denser air at 45,000 feet was best for restarting the turbofans.
Sunset was streaking orange on his western horizon when he went through 45,000 feet at a negative twenty degree angle of attack. The speed was down to Mach 1.2. He opened the turbojet throttles far enough to contract the engine intake cones for normal air flow, then stabbed the ignition switches with a forefinger.
The HUD indicators immediately showed power on both engines, and the RPMs came up quickly.
“Shit, Snake Eyes. You woke me up early.”
“Won’t hurt you a bit, Tiger. You’re the only guy I know who sleeps twenty hours a day.”
“Preparin’ myself for those days when I can’t sleep at all.”
“When did that happen last?” McKenna asked.
“‘Eighty-three or ‘Eighty-four. One or the other.”
Kevin McKenna and Anthony Munoz had been flying the MakoShark together for over three years, but before that, they had flown together in USAF F4-D Panthers and other aircraft. They were well aware of each other’s habits and idiosyncrasies. Without McKenna’s asking for it, Munoz put the GPS signal on the CRT, then overlaid it with a local map.
On his screen, McKenna saw the borders of Wyoming, Nebraska, and Colorado as well as a piece of northwest Kansas. Major highways and cities were shown, as were the prominent peaks to the southwest. The blinking orange dot in the middle of the screen was the MakoShark, and the map scrolled downward as they followed the computer’s imposed heading of 189 degrees.
By the time they passed over the Nebraska panhandle, McKenna had the speed subsonic at 600 knots to erase their shock wave, and Peterson Air Force Base was an orange dot at the top of the screen. A fair amount of conditioning was required in order to become accustomed to the map overlays. North was not always at the top of the screen. Rather, the top was always their direction of travel. Map “North,” in this instance, was 189 degrees, just to the right of true south.
It was after eight o’clock in the Mountain Daylight Time zone. As dusk settled over Denver, the lights in her downtown high rises and the sprawling suburbs flickered into life. McKenna keyed a few changes into the computer, to give Denver and the new international airport in Adams County a wide berth.
Sixty miles out of Colorado Springs at 30,000 feet, McKenna punched in the frequency numbers on the UHF for Peterson Air Control, then keyed the transmit mode with the finger button on the hand controller.
“Peterson Control, Delta Blue.”
“Go, Delta Blue.”
“ETA in nine.”
“Geez, Delta Blue. How about giving me a little warning someday? Squawk me.”
McKenna initiated his IFF transponder, creating an artificial, and identified, blip on Peterson radar screens.
“Delta Blue, Peterson Air Control. We’ve got you. Wind two knots, out of zero-zero-nine. Temperature four-six degrees. If you care about it, and if it were light out, the visibility would be great.”
“I don’t care about it.”
“I thought not. Okay, you’re cleared straight-in on Nine.”
“Copy straight-in on Nine. Delta Blue, gone.”
Despite its stealth on radar, the MakoShark was visible to the naked eye, of course. And while there had been pictures of it published in newspapers and Aviation Week, the Defense Department preferred to keep the craft an arm’s length away from the media and the casual observer. Consequently, takeoffs and landings during daylight hours were rare occurrences. Night landings of the MakoShark were now second nature to McKenna. MakoShark arrivals and departures took precedence over other aircraft.
McKenna heard the air controller suspending other operations.
Far to the west, the main east-west runway went dark.
In the darkness, and despite the lights of nearby Colorado Springs and the Air Force Academy, McKenna could not see it. The skies were clear, not even a cloud bank to blot out the stars. The mountain peaks to the west were dead spots, barely discernible against the stars. He backed off the throttles, deployed the speed brakes, and lost altitude to 12,000 feet as he circled in from the east.
Five minutes out, Munoz asked, “You ready, Snake Eyes?”
“Go over.”
The screen changed to infrared imaging, and McKenna switched his attention to it. At the top edge of the screen, the hot lights surrounding the base provided a red-orange, splayed signal, otherwise there was nothing.
Two minutes later, he had the landing strip. It was lit along both sides with infrared lights, and on the screen, was as visible as Dulles International. Had he looked through his windscreen, he would have seen only darkness.
The long parallel row of lights got longer as the craft descended. McKenna deployed full flaps and landing gear, pulled the throttles full back, and felt the MakoShark sag a trifle. It wasn’t very adept at slow speeds.
Above the instrument panel screen, the graphic readouts for the Instrument Landing System showed his angle-of-descent right on the money, but he was slightly below the glide path. That was a result of coming in heavy, with a greater than normal solid fuel load.
He advanced the throttles a fraction and watched the blip rise up into the glide path tolerance.
On the screen, the infrared lights started to spread.
A glance at the airspeed readout showed 285 miles per hour.
“Right on, amigo.”
The tires squeaked when they touched down.
McKenna used his left hand to pull both throttle levers inboard and back, neutralizing the turbine blades, then easing them into reverse thrust.
The nose dipped as the powerful engines revved up, attempting to slow the craft, which with its fuel loads, weighed close to 180,000 pounds.
The turbofans screamed on either side of him, overcoming the insulation and sound-deadening foam lining the cockpit. McKenna loved that scream.
Halfway down the strip, he began to toe in brakes, and the MakoShark slowed to a creep a hundred yards short of the end of the concrete. McKenna idled the engines as Munoz cut off the infrared cameras and the screen went blank.