Ammon watched from the cockpit as the security forces gathered around him. He could see their flashing lights as three of them accelerated to the opposite end of the field. He knew they would be there waiting. He glanced out his window to see another APC following him on his right side. He watched as the driver of the truck pulled right under his wing.
As he approached the right turn on the taxiway, he tapped on the brakes to slow down, then steered abruptly to the right, following the long taxiway that led toward the other end of the runway. He glanced out his side windows once more. Two APCs were staying right with him, tucked tightly up under each wing. Ammon stared ahead, down the long taxiway that lay before him, a narrow ribbon of white cement. It was bumpy and thin, and was never designed to be used as a runway. But that’s exactly what he would use it for now.
As soon as he had his nose pointing down the taxiway, Ammon pushed all four of his throttles up to maximum power. Four small green lights illuminated each of his engine instruments, telling him that his afterburners had all come to life.
Behind him, a huge blue flame extended out from each of his engines as massive amounts of fuel was dumped into the hot engine exhaust. The engines were now burning fuel at a rate of 300,000 pounds an hour. In a burst of power, thrust, and heat, the Reaper’s Shadow accelerated down the taxiway.
Inside his APC, Sgt Cutter watched as the B-1’s engine nozzles swung closed once again. He was following directly behind the huge bomber, so it was easy for him to see the bright blue flame as it began to sprout from the back of the engines.
He knew immediately what the pilot was trying to do. He frantically pulled on his steering wheel and slammed on his brakes in an effort to get out of the way.
But it was too late. Within two seconds of lighting his afterburners, Ammon’s four engines were producing more than 140,000 pounds of thrust. A massive blast of superheated air shot backward from the tail of the four engines. The blast hit the APC at over 2,000 mph, blowing out all of its windows before sending the vehicle tumbling like a leaf in the wind. After rolling three times, the vehicle came to a stop. Sgt Cutter and his gunners slowly crawled out of the broken vehicle and sprawled on the ground, happy just to be alive.
Frantic voices filled every radio channel as the bomber accelerated down the taxiway.
“He’s taking off! He’s taking off! He’s using the taxiway. Stop him! Shoot his tires. Stop him now!”
Inside the Reaper’s Shadow, Ammon was concentrating on his takeoff. He swiveled the massive aircraft back and forth on the tiny taxiway, trying to keep himself pointed down the narrow strip of concrete.
He was accelerating very quickly now, pressed against the back of his seat. He watched his airspeed indicator for an indication of when it was time to rotate and pull his nose into the air.
To his left side, an APC began to fire its 50 caliber machine gun. The gunner ran a stream of blazing shells along the ground in front of the bomber’s eight main wheels. Two of the outboard tires were shot out. They spun themselves off of their aluminum wheels and blew to pieces in less than a second. But by then, the Reaper was at 115 knots and her wings were producing enough lift that she was starting to get light on her wheels. This reduced the amount of weight that the remaining six tires had to carry. The tires held out, supporting the weight of the aircraft with the help of the partial lift from the wings.
One hundred and twenty knots. Ammon heard a click and a buzz as his MACCS finally came to life.
One hundred and thirty knots. All of the armored vehicles had been left far behind.
Ten seconds after lighting his afterburners, Ammon was accelerating through 160 knots. Decision speed. He was committed to the takeoff.
Ahead of him, in the last APC, sitting on the end of the runway, the machine gunner got a good bead on the bomber. It was still seven thousand feet away. About one and one-quarter miles. In another few seconds it would be within four thousand feet. Then he would start to fire.
To his side, one of his buddies manned the grenade launcher. He was not very thrilled at the prospect of trying to shoot down a flying bomber. His launcher was never intended for this purpose. It was designed to kill men on the ground, not shoot a high performance aircraft from the air. But still, he stood there waiting. He figured he would only have enough time to fire two shots at the approaching bomber. All he could do was aim for the engines and hope that he got lucky.
One hundred and sixty knots. Ammon began to pull back on the stick. His nose rotated upward and he felt his wheels drop as the aircraft lifted into the air. He breathed a huge sigh of relief. He reached down and lifted the gear handle. They were fast approaching the end of the runway. There was no way to stop them now.
Then he saw the blaze of smoke as the gunners on the last APC began to fire. He watched the tracers from the 50mm cannon reach upward like long, bony fingers, stretching out to touch the fleeing aircraft with their pellets of steel. He subconsciously winced at the sight of the grenade launcher as it fired off three shells in a fury of smoke.
Ammon screamed into his oxygen mask as he pulled back on the stick.
TWENTY-NINE
Reaper’s shadow hurtled skyward, leaving the three rocket-propelled grenades to fall harmlessly back to earth. But the 50 caliber machine gun shells continued to arch upward, following the Reaper’s Shadow as it climbed like a wild dart up into the sky. The gunner ran the tracers forward, tracking just ahead of the B-1’s flight path in a long and continuous burst. The cannon’s muzzle began to glow a faint burnt orange and the smell of burning powder filled the air. But still the gunner pressed against the trigger of his cannon, never once thinking of holding his fire. The aircraft was climbing too quickly. Very soon it would be out of range.
Richard Ammon began to jink and roll in an effort to throw off the gunner’s aiming solution. He kept the throttles in full afterburner and the aircraft continued to accelerate while she climbed. He yanked his stick to the right. The B-1 rolled onto its side and began to pull away from the APC’s blazing gun. By then, Reaper’s Shadow was over the end of the runway and climbing through twelve hundred feet, her nose pulled up at an impossible angle. Any other aircraft would have stalled and fallen from the sky. But the B-1 continued to climb, her four engines thrusting her skyward.
In the end, it was sheer power that saved the aircraft. The gunner had anticipated that the Bone would fly directly overhead. But he didn’t realize that she had the ability to climb so far, so fast. He had never seen what 140,000 pounds of thrust could do. The bomber came at him far too quickly. And then she started to maneuver, turning and rolling, pushing and pulling, it was like shooting at a drunken mosquito, and although he tried, the gunner just couldn’t quite keep up. His window of opportunity was only eight or ten seconds long. And it wasn’t enough. He fired his last shell as Reaper’s Shadow accelerated away, becoming an ever smaller dot on the horizon, leaving the gunner to stare in amazement as the black form of the aircraft melted into the haze of the Kansas morning.
As soon as he was out of range of the gun, Ammon pushed the nose of the aircraft back toward the earth, leveling off at at a mere three hundred feet. He set a course of 160, almost directly south toward Texas. As soon as he could, he went back through his checklist to clean up any items which he might have missed. He knew that he only had a few minutes before the fighters moved in.