He stole a quick glance back through the fence. The other guard already had his machine gun trained on the two men in the flight suits. He alternately pointed the end of his muzzle between Morozov and Ammon, jerking the weapon back and forth in sudden and erratic motions. His finger was pressed against the trigger, just a hair’s width from firing the gun. He looked scared and confused and was ready to shoot. The blazing fires illuminated the fear in his eyes.
The guard knew that the situation was growing dangerous. Something wasn’t right. These men were far too anxious to enter the compound. There was too much noise. Too much confusion; the heat, the flames, the scrambling pilots, and screaming klaxons. He had to get the situation under control. Something had to give.
And then it did. And just in time. The guard was just drawing his breath, ready to command Ammon and Morozov to hit the dirt, when the second guard reached up and slammed a handle on the side of the fence. The door immediately rolled back on a huge set of well-greased hinges, its emergency retraction mechanism pushing it out of the way.
“It’s open,” the guard screamed over the noise and confusion. “Come on in, man! Come on, let’s go!”
Ammon ran through the gate to the inside of the fence.
By then Ivan Morozov had withdrawn his hand from his jacket and was already sprinting toward the waiting Bones. Richard ran after him.
There was only one B-1 that wasn’t already surrounded by a hurried crew. Aircraft number 68-347. Reaper’s Shadow was her name. She was the last aircraft in the row of bombers, the closest aircraft to the gate, only 175 yards from where Ammon and Morozov had started running. It was also the only aircraft that had been loaded with the new top secret cruise missile. The fact that it was parked closest to the gate had been no accident. It had been placed there by design.
As Ammon ran, he looked over his shoulder to the alert facility door. There he saw the last crew emerge from the building, the pilot half dressed, his hair frothing with a cap of shampoo. His navigator pushed him along the tarmac as they sprinted to the B-1.
Ammon judged the distance between them. It was going to be very tight. The other crew was slightly closer, but not as fast, scrambling to get dressed as they ran. He and Morozov would be the first ones to the aircraft. They might beat the other crew by only five or six seconds. But that would be enough.
Ammon was thirty yards from the bomber when suddenly an armed security guard appeared from behind the main wheel gear. He had his M-16 drawn to his side and his radio pressed to his ear. He was trying to follow the panicked conversations on the radio as he watched Ammon and Morozov approaching the aircraft.
He put out his hands and started to yell. “StoP! Halt! I need to see your ID!”
Ammon and Morozov completely ignored him. They didn’t even hesitate as they ran into the Zone. Let the guard shoot them if he would. The real crew was now only fifty yards behind them. Ammon and Morozov had to get inside the aircraft and shut the hatch before they could be stopped.
They ran right past the guard. Morozov yelled at him as he passed by. “Pull the intake covers! And hurry!”
The guard hesitated for a second, glanced at the oncoming river of fire, then ran toward the four big engines and began to pull the red square plastic covers that protected the engine inlets.
Morozov and Ammon ran up the ladder that led into the cockpit. Ammon slammed a switch beside him as he climbed inside. He heard the electric motors start to retract the ladder, just as the other crew ran underneath the aircraft’s belly.
Ammon climbed past Morozov and slipped into the forward cockpit and started flipping switches to start the engines. In less than ten seconds he could feel the aircraft gently vibrate as the four GE-101 turbofan engines began to wind up. He reached up and put on the helmet that was already pre-positioned by the side of his ejection seat, pulling it down over his ears and dropping its dark eye shield to cover his face.
He looked around the cockpit. In front of him was his main computer screen. Several smaller displays were set off to the side. He was surrounded by hundreds of switches, gauges, and knobs. It was an intimidating sight. He was immediately grateful that he and Morozov had spent so much time in the simulator. Without that training, he wouldn’t even know where to begin. But as it was, everything seemed very familiar.
The only thing that caught him by surprise was the sound. The simulator had been very quiet, but inside the actual aircraft there was a constant muffled roar, a reminder that they were sitting on one hundred and forty thousand pounds of thrust and power. And the air from the air-conditioning and pressurization systems hissed through the cooling vents, blowing like a tiny storm.
The first thing Ammon did was strap a thick plastic book of checklists around his left leg and secure it with a stretch of velcro-covered elastic. Then he began to strap himself into his ejection seat. It required nine different connections; five chest harnesses, two waist straps, and finally two leg restraints. By the time he was all strapped in, Ammon almost felt claustrophobic. The thick harnesses and restraints made it very difficult to move around in the seat. But that’s the way it had to be. Otherwise his arms and legs would be shattered if he ever had to eject from the Bone.
After strapping in, Ammon set about to bring up the aircraft’s systems, while Morozov went to work in the back. Ammon worked through his checklist very quickly, setting the various switches to their proper positions, taking time to complete only the most critical items that would be necessary for immediate flight. Once they were in the air, he would go back and check the aircraft’s secondary systems, but he didn’t have time for that now.
Ammon was ready in less than sixty seconds. He checked his watch, then pressed his intercom switch and talked into the microphone in his mask.
“How long?” he asked abruptly.
“Two minutes, thirty-five seconds,” Morozov answered. That was how long it would take before Reaper’s Shadow’s computers would be up and running. And the Reaper wasn’t going to take off until its computers were ready to go.
Everything on the Bone was controlled by one of the eleven central computers. The official name of the computer system was Main Avionics Central Computer System, but everyone just called it the MACCS. Without the MACCS, Ammon wouldn’t be able to raise his gear, sweep the wings, transfer fuel, or control his radar. Without the computers, he couldn’t move any of his flight controls. Everything, from dropping his bombs to flushing the toilet was commanded, controlled, and monitored through the MACCS. So they were at the mercy of their computers. They couldn’t take off until the MACCS was ready to go.
Which wouldn’t happen for another two minutes and thirty-five seconds. That would be just barely in time. Ammon looked down the airfield at the other bombers. Almost all of them were already on their way to the new parking spots. After a moment’s hesitation, he spoke again into his mask. “I’ll start to taxi,” he said over the intercom. “I’ll go slowly out to the alternate parking area. Most of the other Bones are already on their way. We will be the last in line. Tell me when you’re ready to go.”
“Yes, yes. Just get going,” was all Morozov replied.
Ammon pushed up on his throttles. The Shadow hesitated for just a second. It took a significant amount of power to break the aircraft free from the 400,000 pounds of weight that pressed down on its tires. But finally it began to inch forward, slowly at first, but building up speed as she went.
Ammon steered the aircraft toward the alternate parking area that was situated at the end of the runway. Most of the other B-1s were already pulling into the parking ramp. They began to line up in a long row, facing the runway.