“Sandusky, this is Saber leader. Roger, we’re in and we’re in. Payback time for the bomber pukes. Phase One ROE?”
“Affirmative, Phase One, we’re ready,” Carter replied. “Phase One” ROE, or Rules of Engagement, were the safest of three standard aerial- combat exercise levels with which all aircrews entering the RED FLAG ranges were familiar: no closer than two miles between aircraft, no closure rates greater than three hundred knots, no bank angles greater than forty-five degrees, no altitudes below two thousand feet above the ground.
“Roger, Sandusky, this is Saber One-One flight of two, Phase One, fight’s on.”
“I don’t believe this, I don’t believe this,” Masters said excitedly. “Two Lightning fighters are gunning for «j.”
“It’s all part of the tactics of standoff attack defense, Jon,” McLanahan said. “If you can destroy the missile’s carrier aircraft, you’ve destroyed the enemy’s ability to launch more cruise missiles. Tighten your straps, everybody. General Samson, get out of here, please.”
Carter’s fingers flew over his instrument panel, and seconds later the electronic command bars on Samson’s center multifunction display snapped downward. “Terrain-avoidance mode selected, command bars are active, pilot,” he said to Samson. “Let’s go, General!”
Masters suddenly became very light in his seat, as Samson engaged the EB-52 bomber’s autopilot and the big bomber nosed over toward the earth. The sudden negative Gs made the young scientist’s head spin and his stomach churn, but he was able to keep from blowing lunch all over his console as he tightened his straps and finally managed to focus over his console toward the cockpit — and when he did, all he could see out the front cockpit windows was brown desert. Masters could feel his helmet dangling upward as the negative Gs threatened to float the helmet right off his head, and he hurriedly fastened his chin strap and oxygen mask.
“Thirty miles and closing,” McLanahan reported.
“They can’t see us on radar, right?” Masters squeaked on intercom in his high, tinny voice. “Not this far out, right?”
“It’s daytime, Jon — we’re sitting ducks,” McLanahan said. “Stealth doesn’t help much if they can see you without radar. We’ve probably been leaving contrails, too — might as well have been towing a lighted banner. We’ve still got fifteen thousand feet to lose before they get in missile range. Clear right. Ready for COMBAT mode.” Samson heeled the EB-52 bomber into a steep right bank, spilling lift from the bomber’s huge wings and increasing their descent rate. He kept the bank in for about twenty seconds.
“Wings level now,” Carter said. “Five thousand to level… command bars moving… four thousand… three thousand… two thousand to go… command bars coming to level pitch… one thousand… command bars indicating climb… descent rate to zero… command bars are terrain-active. Take it around that butte, then come left and center up.”
“Take it to max power, General,” McLanahan urged. “We’re not going to make it to the butte before they’re in missile range.” Samson pushed the throttles to maximum power and saw the warning lights illuminate on his cockpit warning indicators — max power was only supposed to be used for takeoff or go-arounds, usually with the landing gear down. “Get your finger off the paddle switch, sir — let the terrain- avoidance system do its job.”
“Jesus, McLanahan,” Samson gasped, as they sped toward the rocky mountains. He found he had been unconsciously “paddling off” the terrain-avoidance autopilot with his right little finger, flying higher than the autopilot wanted — the command bars were a full five degrees below the horizon. “No one said anything about flying TA on this flight.”
“We can’t let those fighter jocks get us, sir,” McLanahan said. “Let the TA system take it. Get the nose down.”
They heard a slow-pitched deedle deedle deedle! warning tone. “Radar lock!” McLanahan shouted. “Simulate MAWS activated!” The MAWS, or Missile Active Warning System, used a laser emitter tied to the threat receivers to blind incoming enemy missiles — MAWS could also blind a pilot. “Left turn, take them around that butte! ” Samson released the paddle switch, letting the bomber tuck down to an even lower altitude, then pushed the stick left and aimed for the north side of the butte. “Tighter, General,” McLanahan shouted. “We’ve got to make them overshoot!”
“I’m as far as I can go.” But he felt the bomber heel even more sharply to the left, as Carter pushed the stick over even more, pulling to tighten the turn. It seemed as if the entire left side of the cockpit windscreen was filled with the towering gray slab of rock, although they were not yet at forty-five degrees of bank. “McLanahan… dammit, enoughl” “They’re overshooting — they’re breaking off!” McLanahan said. “Hard right, center up! ” On the supercockpit display, the two F-22 fighters had broken off the pursuit, climbed, and arced west to get away from the butte. Samson hauled the control stick to the right, a brief thrill of fear shooting through his brain as he felt the bomber mush slightly at the cross-control point — the stick was full right, the bomber was still turning left, and he was out of control until the bomber started to respond — but a few moments later the autopilot was back in control and they were wings-level, flying 2,000 feet above ground down a wide valley.
“Sandusky, this is Saber flight,” the pilot of the lead F-22 radioed. “No fair. We can’t chase you guys down that low without busting the ROE. How about one pass at Phase Three?” Phase Three was the most realistic, most dangerous level of combat exercise: 1,000 feet between aircraft, no lower than 200 feet above the ground, max closure rate of 1,000 knots, unlimited bank angles. Samson said nothing; Carter considered that silence as permission and agreement from the aircraft commander.
McLanahan didn’t ask if Samson wanted to play, didn’t wait for any comments from anyone else. “Saber flight, this is Sandusky, acknowledged, Phase Three, we’re in.”
“Saber flight’s in, Phase Three, fight’s on.”
“They’re coming around again,” McLanahan said. “I’ve got a sliver valley off to the left. Take it right in between those ridges. I’ll dial it down to COLA — they’ll lose us for sure.” COLA stood for Computer-generated Lowest Altitude, where the terrain-avoidance computer would sacrifice safety to choose the lowest possible altitude — it could be as low as just a few dozen feet above ground, even in this rocky, hilly terrain. “We’ll pop up through that saddle to the south before the valley ends and swing all the way around behind them. They won’t know what the hell happened.” But instead of turning right, McLanahan felt the EB-52 start a climb. “Hey, get the nose down, sir, and give me a right turn, there’s your track.”
“I said enough, Patrick,” Samson said. He punched off the attack computer from the autopilot and started a slow climb, straight ahead down the wide valley. It did not take long for the kill — the F-22 fighters roared on them at supersonic speed, radars locked on, and passed less than 600 feet overhead. The sonic boom sent a dull shudder and a loud thunderclap through the bomber. Samson switched his number one radio to the range safety frequency and keyed the mike: “All players, knock it off, knock it off, knock it off. Sandusky is RTB.” The F-22s could be seen rocking their wings in acknowledgment as they climbed out of sight.
Patrick McLanahan punched in commands to give Samson steering cues to the range exit point, then stripped off his oxygen mask in exasperation. “What in hell was that, General?” he asked. “You don’t give up during a chase like that! ”
“Hey, McLanahan, you may be a civilian, but you watch your mouth and your attitude,” Samson said angrily, his head jerking to the right. “It wasn’t a chase, McLanahan, it was showboating. We weren’t scheduled to go low, and we sure as hell weren’t fragged to do terrain avoidance or do lazy eights around mountains like that!”