"Let's handle one thing at a time," countered Leader. "Just give me a bearing to the IP."
Whizzo checked his instruments. "Come to one-five-four, Skipper."
"Roger," replied Leader, and he began his turn. They were flying in an area where the cloud cover had thickened, and he felt confident that his aircraft was once again invisible. Ghost Leader had been on the inside track of the stealth prototype's development for years. He knew his warplane's capabilities as well as he knew the capabilities of the Russian radar system. He still couldn't explain how that fighter had spotted them visually, yet he was certain they were undetected by radar — because if the Russians had somehow acquired them on their radar screens, his bomber would've been blown out of the sky long ago. As long as they stayed in the clouds, he felt they were safe.
"I like this soup," said Whizzo, referring to the cloud cover. "It's a shame we have to drop under it for the bomb run. What do we do if there's a flock of fighters circling the target runway?"
Leader shrugged. "If that happens, we'll see if we can get a visual on the shutde, then go back into the clouds and drop the load with the Norden Computer. That would be a long shot for such a pinpoint job, but that's the best we can do. No sense losing the bomber and our respective asses if we can't make it through to the target."
Whizzo nodded. Both men had guts, but they were also aware of their aircraft's painful limitations when it was exposed. Even a B-1B bomber with its Mach 2 speed, swing-wing maneuverability, and defensive systems wouldn't stand much of a chance against a pack of fighters out in the open.
"I wonder how Ghost Two is doing?'' muttered the electronic systems officer, thinking about his buddy Whizzo on the other bomber.
In a reassuring voice, Leader said, "He's probably coming up to the alternate IP now."
"Goddammit!" yelled Bergstrom as he slammed down the phone.
"Now what?" demanded the President.
The admiral's face had turned purple. "That was General Dooley at SAC in Omaha. They just received a burst radio transmission from one of the stealth bombers. It looks like one of them has been shot down."
The chief executive sagged in his chair, and in a voice that was numb from too many surprises, he asked, "What else can happen now?"
"Not much, I would say," said the Vice President.
"General Dooley says the burst message indicated the bombers were spotted visually by a Russian fighter aircraft," added Bergstrom. "The two stealth bombers split up and tried to evade detection by staying in some cloud cover. As far as General Dooley can tell, the other bomber is still in the air."
"They were spotted visually?" queried the Vice President.
"Yes, sir."
"Hmmm. How did the Russians know where to look?" asked the Secretary of State.
"Beats the hell outta me… sir," grumbled the admiral. "I've seen what that stealth bomber can do, and I don't think there's any way in hell it could've been picked up on radar. Our one consolation is that it assuredly broke into smithereens when it impacted on the ground."
Iceberg watched his instruments carefully as the Intrepid plunged through the inferno of the reentry communications blackout. His eye was fixed on the Pascal air pressure indicator. When the readout clicked up to 480 Pascals — roughly equivalent to ten pounds of pressure per square foot — it meant there was enough airflow over the ailerons to generate a roll response from the orbiter.
The indicator kept moving up, and when it passed 960 Pascals, Iceberg knew the orbiter would now respond to the elevator control surfaces as well.
The Intrepid's altitude was now 230,000 feet above the Indian Ocean. At that height the atmosphere was almost nonexistent, and it was the orbiter's 15,000-mph speed that generated enough air pressure over the wings to transform the vessel from spacecraft to aircraft.
Iceberg turned its attitude direction indicator rate switch to hi, then disengaged the digital autopilot and manually took over the steering of the vessel with his hand controller. The autopilot could have continued to handle the descent, but Iceberg liked to be in control. He watched the altitude and chronometer readouts on the NavComputer display screen, which showed that the Intrepid had already plummeted to 200,000 feet and was sixteen minutes to touchdown.
Iceberg carefully moved the hand controller to put the Intrepid into its first of four braking S-turns.
Monaghan's heart was thumping now. All his instruments told him everything was fine with the spacecraft, but his windshield was covered with a glowing orange hue. The external thermometer said the Kestrel's skin temperature was approaching 1,800 degrees Fahrenheit, and he felt his spacesuit's cooling system working overtime.
"Damn," muttered Mad Dog. "This is a lot different from the shuttle. The flames weren't so… close."
"That's for sure," agreed Lamborghini, who felt himself growing warm, but didn't know if it was for real or just his imagination. "Mad Dog, I just thought of something."
"Yeah… like what?" asked Monaghan.
Lamborghini could feel sweat on his upper lip. "The infrared sensor in the nose. I'm not sure how this reentry heat will affect it. Maybe it could foul things up."
In a voice that was devoid of his usual confidence, Monaghan said, "Okay."
Changing the subject, Lamborghini said, "Dammit. I wish I knew what that second radar signature was that we hit with the Phoenix."
"No sense pissin' and moanin' about it now," mused Mad Dog. "Maybe you got some kinda false echo, maybe there was some space junk out there. Maybe the damned system was busted. Who the hell knows?"
"Yeah," came Lamborghini's rueful reply.
Mad Dog checked his NavComputer. "Okay, Hot Rod. Hang on. We're going into the S-turns now. I'm going to have to cut this very nicely if we're gonna surprise Mr. Iceberg."
Monaghan began playing the hand controller like a virtuoso, slicing the thin air with just the right edge to give the Kestrel a little faster braking than the Intrepid.
Lamboighini looked down and saw they were just crossing over the coast of Pakistan.
Whizzo double-checked the Global Positioning readout on the NavComputer display screen. "We're almost to the IP, Skipper. Come to one-nine-seven… now. We're at IP. Seventeen minutes to target."
"Roger," replied Leader, and he turned the wheel to line up his aircraft for the final bomb run. "Whizzo, I'm going to stay up in the clouds at one-seven thousand, then thirteen minutes out from the drop point I'm going to begin a descent to two thousand feet for your final run."
"No sweat, Skipper," replied Whizzo. "Just get me in the ballpark and I'll lay in the Paveways nice and pretty." He checked his NavComputer again. "Sixteen minutes to target… speed four-four-two knots."
"The spacecraft is responding well," said Iceberg's voice through the speaker box. "Approximately twelve minutes to touchdown. Altitude one-seven-seven thousand feet, speed eight-one-two-zero miles per hour."
"Excellent, Intrepid," replied Mission Commander Malyshev. "Be advised, conditions at the landing zone are heavy cumulonimbus clouds, ceiling at four thousand meters — that is, approximately twelve thousand feet. Wind from the northeast at seventeen kilometers per hour."