The most striking changes in the Megafortress were under its long, thin wings. Instead of eight Pratt & Whitney T33 turbofan engines, the EB-52 Megafortress sported just four airliner-style General Electric CF6 fanjet engines, modified for use on this experimental aircraft. The CF6 engines were quieter, less smoky, and gave the Megafortress over 60 percent more thrust than did the old turbofans, but with 30 percent greater fuel economy. At nearly a half-million pounds gross weight, the Megafortress could fly nearly halfway around the world at altitudes of over 50,000 feet — unrefueled!
The Megafortress was so highly computerized that the normal B-52 crew complement of six had been reduced down to four — a pilot and copilot; a defensive systems officer, who was in charge of bomber defense; and an offensive systems officer, who was in charge of employing the ground and anti-radar attack weapons and who also acted as the reconnaissance, surveillance, and air intelligence officer. The OSO’s and DSO’s stations were now on the upper deck of the EB-52, facing forward; the lower deck was now configured as an expanded avionics bay and also included a galley, lavatory, and seats and bunk area for extra crew members who might be taken aboard for long missions.
“Jon’s only intervention was to redesignate the first target again so the Wolverine could reattack,” McLanahan pointed out. McLanahan was not nearly as tall as Terrill Samson, but he, too, was broad-shouldered and powerfully built — he just seemed to fit perfectly in the EB-52 bomber’s OSO’s seat, as if that’s where he always belonged. It was as if McLanahan had been born to fly in that seat, or as if the controls and displays had been sized and positioned precisely to fit him and him alone — which, in fact, they had. “The upgraded missile has a rearward sensor capability for autonomous bomb damage assessment. With a satellite datalink, an operator — either on the carrier aircraft, on any other JTIDS-equipped aircraft in the area, or eventually from a ground command station thousands of miles away — could command the Wolverine to reattack.”
“That twenty-G turn, evading the AMRAAM,” Samson remarked, his voice still quivering with excitement, “… it was breathtaking. It looked like a cartoon, some kind of science-fiction-movie thing.”
“Not science fiction — science fact,” McLanahan said. “The Wolverine has thrust-vectored control jets instead of conventional wings and tail surfaces, and a mission-adaptive fuselage controlled by microhydraulics — the entire body of the missile changes shape, allowing it to use lifting-body aerodynamics to turn faster. In fact, the faster it goes, the tighter it can turn — just the opposite of most aircraft. All moving parts on the missile are driven by microhydraulic devices, so a simple five- hundred-psi pump the size of my wristwatch can power three hundred actuators at over ten thousand psi — theoretically we can maintain control at up to thirty Gs, but at that speed the missile would probably snap in half or the pressure might cook off the explosives in the warheads. But no fighter or missile yet built can keep up with the Wolverine.”
Samson fell silent again in amazement. McLanahan turned to his left and looked at the man seated beside him and added, “Good job, Jon. I think you watered his eyes.”
“Of course we did,” Masters said. “What did you expect?” He tried to say it as casually and as coolly as McLanahan, but the excitement bubbling in his voice could not be disguised. Unlike the other two men in the cockpit with him, Jon Masters shared only their dancing, energetic eyes and boundless enthusiasm — he was as thin as they were broad, with a boyish, almost goofy-looking face. Jon Masters, the designer of the incredible AGM-177 Wolverine cruise missile along with dozens of other high-tech military weapons and satellites, was aboard to watch his missile do its stuff; in case anything went wrong, he could also abort the missile s flight, if necessary. That was also a Jon Masters hallmark — rarely, if ever, did the first operational test of one of his missiles or satellites work properly. This test appeared to be a welcome exception.
McLanahan commanded the EB-52 bomber into a right turn back toward the exit point to the RED FLAG range. “A little professional modesty might help sell a few Wolverines to the Air Force, Jon,” McLanahan pointed out. McLanahan, retired as a colonel from the Air Force after sixteen years in service, was now a paid consultant to Sky Masters, for which he performed a number of tasks, from test-pilot duties to product design.
“Trust me on this one, Patrick,” Masters said, slouching in his ejection seat and taking a big swig out of his ever-present squeeze bottle of Pepsi. “When it comes to the military, you’ve got to yell it to sell it. Talk to Helen in marketing — her budget is almost as big as the research-and- development budget.”
“Dr. Masters has a right to be proud,” General Samson said, “and I’m proud to back him and the Wolverine project. With a fleet of Wolverine missiles in the inventory, we can locate and kill targets with zero-zero precision from standoff range and at the same time virtually eliminate the risk of sending a human pilot over a heavily defended target area, and eliminate having to send in special forces troops on the ground to search for enemy missile or radar sites.”
“It also breathes new life into the heavy-bomber program,” McLanahan added. “I know there’s been a lot of congressional pressure to do away with all of the ‘heavies,’ especially the B-52s, in favor of newer fighter-bombers. Well, load up one B-52 with twenty-six Wolverine missiles, and it’s like launching a squadron of F-16 or F/A-18 fighter- bombers, except it cuts costs by nine-tenths and doesn’t put as many pilots at risk.”
A tone in all their headsets stopped the conversation. Two bat-wing fighter symbols had appeared at the bottom of McLanahan’s supercockpit display, and they were closing fast. “Fighters — probably the two F-22s, gunning for us, ” McLanahan said. “I’ll bet they’re pissed after missing the Wolverines.”
“Let ’em come,” Masters said. “We won — we already blasted the places they were assigned to protect.”
“The exercise isn’t over as long as we’re inside the range, Doctor,” Kelvin Carter said in a loud, excited voice, pulling his straps tighter and refastening his oxygen mask in place with a quick thrust. “We accomplished the mission — all we gotta do now is survive”
Masters literally gulped on interphone. “You mean… you mean we’re going to try to outrun those fighters? Now?”
“We didn’t brief an air-to-air engagement,” Samson pointed out. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Well, go ahead and get us clearance for air-to-air,” McLanahan suggested. “We own this airspace. Got it, Kel?”
“Rog, Patrick.” Carter clicked open the range safety channel. “Saber One-One flight, this is Sandusky. Wanna play?”