Joe stared incredulously at Buck, his face shifting from puzzled to confused. “What the hell is going on?” he asked.
Buck calmly reached forward and punched a small red button to acknowledge the cockpit alarm. “Beats me,” he answered. Outwardly he remained composed, but inwardly was a different story.
The plane’s main flight computer had digested the digital input from the crypto device downstream from the UHF transceiver and then spit out the results to a thermal printer next to Ledermeyer’s ejection seat. He studied the brief message, checking the header, then, word by word, verifying the format of the text in the body. Buck removed his bulky flight gloves and retrieved a small plastic box containing a two-inch computer diskette. He inserted it into a drive on the front of the flight computer. The codes stored on the diskette would be displayed on the screen next to those extracted from the message body. If identical, Buck and Joe would make a final comparison to the hardcopy for an exhaustive authentication. Buck waited nervously.
Ledermeyer thrust the printed message forward into Joe’s hand at the same instant the nuclear release codes contained on the little diskette cascaded down the computer display. Joe’s eyes were riveted on the screen, momentarily darting back to the message gripped in his glove. “Shit,” he said excitedly. “Think it could be a mistake?”
Buck pulled a thin folder from the doomsday case. “It’s real,” he said, balancing the red folder in his lap. He ran his finger down a short list of message types, stopping at the one where the message format exactly matched that in the EAM. “We’re to orbit north of the Canadian border. Then wait for the go code — if it comes.”
Joe leaned back in his seat. His world had just exploded. Ledermeyer and Johnson were silent, the normal chatter on the intercom had disappeared with the stunning realization that they might be going to war. It seemed impossible, unfathomable. Less than twenty-four hours before, they had been on a training mission, clicking through a canned mission scenario, which culminated with a perfect drop of dummy B-61s on an instrumented range. They could do it in their sleep. But now the bombs in the belly weren’t dummies, and the bad guys weren’t computer-driven emulations. Living, breathing Russians would be trying to kill them.
Buck wrestled with the orders resting in his lap. “A mistake?” he wondered for a moment. “Fat chance,” he muttered to himself. To sortie the bomber force and place them in holding patterns meant war. There was no other explanation. The pause was nothing more than a breather for the NCA to weigh the attack options.
Slouched in his seat, Buck stared at the sky and mulled the odds. As the aircraft commander, his crew would look to him to bring them home — to what he couldn’t imagine. STRATCOM felt that 30 to 50 percent of the B-1s would return, or so they said. Buck thought less than 20 percent was a far more realistic number, and that’s if they got lucky. The kicker was the assumption that tankers would service the bombers on the homeward leg. Buck had always been fatalistic; it suited his temperament.
Gazing out the Plexiglas windshield, his thoughts turned to family and friends — it hurt. The crystal-clear definition of being a bomber pilot in the United States Air Force whacked him across the face. He shook off the self-pity and returned to the task at hand. It was his job, one that he had committed to and trained for much of his adult life. He reassured himself that he would do it well.
Topping-off fuel tanks was the first order of business. The gas would be provided by a lone KC-135 tanker assigned to the 301st Air Refueling Wing based at Malstrom AFB. The unglamorous tankers were the lifeblood of the strategic bomber force. They were every bit as important as the bombers striking the targets and a high-priority target for the enemy. Their movements would be closely scrutinized to destroy them on the ground or in the air. Raze the fields, and the army starves. It was as old as history.
The mating dance scheduled over Canada between bombers and tankers was a masterpiece of planning, but frail. The slightest disruption would create a bow wave of chaos that would cascade through the force. Once committed, the bombers were particularly vulnerable. Bringing them down short of their objectives, loaded with weapons and fuel, at some civilian airfield or backwoods recovery site was courting disaster. On foreign soil, the results would be catastrophic. Once topped-off, they had perhaps half an hour to orbit before they would have to either head north to war or south to sanctuary, far from the reach of Russian bombers and ICBMs. Already, support teams were dispersing to sites in northern Mexico where they would wait for crippled aircraft to limp south.
Buck glanced at his watch. 4:40 p.m. Rendezvous would be in twenty-five minutes. His crew monitored instruments and referenced manuals, anything to divert their attention. He felt their pain.
Suddenly, another alarm flashed on the instrument console. Buck tightened. Joe slumped in his seat.
“I want a status report from all stations,” Buck ordered. An infusion of formality marked his tone.
On the bridge of USS Texas, the captain stewed in his chair, perched four feet off the green linoleum deck. He leaned back, his shoes resting on the bulkhead under the thick glass bridge windows. His chin was cradled by his thumb and forefinger. It was a fair day, with relatively calm seas for this high latitude, a stiff breeze blowing from the northwest. He had been up before daybreak to keep a close eye on the Russian frigate five nautical miles off the starboard beam. She had been shadowing Texas for over ten hours and had worn out her welcome.
Texas had been steaming in circles for the past three weeks. Her captain felt cramped, boxed in by Russian combatants on three sides, and constantly overflown by Bear and Backfire aircraft. They could unload on Texas with no warning, and he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. So far they had behaved. His orders cautioned against pushing too hard, which suited him just fine.
Texas was ideally suited for this tough operation. Nuclear propulsion meant endurance — no need to gas up every few days. She could remain on station for weeks, months — if need be — only needing an occasional drop of groceries. She bristled with Harpoon and Tomahawk anti-ship missiles, complemented by Standard surface-to-air missiles, making her more than a match for the Russian ships nearby.
Enough, the captain thought. “Officer of the Deck,” he called, rising up in his chair, “Get rid of that frigate. All ahead flank.” They had done the same to a destroyer two days earlier, running a Russian skipper into the ground.
“Yes, sir,” responded the OOD. While orders flew, the communications officer burst through the back door to the Bridge, slamming it hard against the bulkhead.
“Captain,” he stammered, out of breath. “Flash message from CINCPACFLT.”
The captain looked puzzled, taking the message and holding it in one hand. All eyes were glued on the man in the chair, his face expressionless.
“I’m not sure what they mean, sir.”
The captain knew. “Boatswain,” shouted the captain, quickly jumping from his chair, “sound general quarters. OOD, cancel that flank bell. Ahead standard.”
The boatswain hesitated, his mouth hanging open. A stern look sent him flying to the 1MC with a prompt, “Aye, aye, sir.”
The general alarm brought the ship to life. The boatswain’s repeated call over the 1MC that it was not a drill ratcheted the sense of urgency. Sailors flew down ladders and sprinted down passageways to their assigned battle stations.