The B-1B could fly over nine hundred miles per hour and carry more than seventy-five thousand pounds of munitions. Hundreds of support personnel had been deployed to Guam to keep the giant supersonic aircraft flying.
Hightower and his crew sat in the back of a golf cart, riding from their squadron building over to the aircraft. They were dropped off about fifty feet away. Hightower made one long walk, all the way around the Bone. It was sleek. It was aerodynamic. It was beautiful, and he loved flying it. Personally, he was glad that it no longer supported the nuclear mission. He didn’t like the idea of training for something that he hoped he would never have to do.
Growing up outside the Houston area, Hightower had been interested in only two things during his high school days: football and girls. He hadn’t been a star in either area, although he liked to say otherwise. But he had really wanted to play Division 1 college football. He’d wanted to be on TV on Saturday. So he had written letters to every college football coach in the NCAA Division 1 field. Only one had written back. Fortunately for him, he’d performed at least well enough academically to be looked at by the US Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. They’d said that he could fly jets after graduation. He had only cared that they were a D1 football program.
He had had no idea what he was in for.
He thought about his first few months at the Academy all those years ago. Upperclassmen screaming at him, the high altitude of the mountain air starving him of oxygen, and the rigorous football practices and engineering classes sucking away all his energy each night. By his second year in Colorado Springs, he had hit his stride. Hightower had hit the books and made solid marks. He’d found that he was prouder of being part of the US Air Force team than of being a football player, although that was great too.
Now, looking back on it, he knew that all that hard work was just so that he could get here. Graduating the Academy was just the start. The years of grueling flight school studies. Rigorous survival training out in the desert. Combat mission around the world. Studying and putting up with the everyday bullshit of the military.
It was all for this.
His one moment to stand up and answer the call. To write his sentence in a history book. He just hoped to God that the following paragraph would be a good one.
Hightower climbed up the ten-step ladder situated underneath the aircraft cabin. It was like climbing into a spaceship, the jet was so huge. The South Pacific breeze was a steady fifteen knots off the flight line, whipping the pant legs of his green flight suit as he climbed, grabbing hold of the metal rails, his helmet bag in his gloved hand.
Today would be routine, but different. The two combat systems officers were hopping up onto their elevated seats in the rear of the cabin. Dozens of green-lit screens and gray buttons. They were setting everything up for the mission, making sure there would be no surprises. Checking ordnance status, communications frequencies, electronic measures, and probably saying a few prayers while they were at it.
Hightower slipped into the left pilot seat. His copilot was already sitting in the right. They began their own preflight checklists. The copilot would read what to do, and Hightower would flip the switch and confirm that it had been done.
Before long, they had clearance from ground control and were moving the throttles forward. The plane captain in front of his nose, wearing an orange vest and ear protection, moving his arms and then signaling to brake. Brakes checked, and they taxied on until they arrived at the hold short line. Takeoff clearance from tower, and then the power of the ancient gods revealed itself — the four General Electric turbofan engines, each one capable of producing more than seventeen thousand pounds of thrust, propelled them down the runway.
Hightower pulled back on the yoke, and they began their rapid climb out.
“Landing gear up. Time to go bomb North Korea.”
The mission was scheduled to take ten hours.
Navigation was a bitch. While they always had carried charts and backed themselves up with the navigational beacons of the past, the truth was that the entire military had grown overly reliant on global positioning systems.
GPS had been the greatest thing ever in the 1990s and 2000s. Laser-guided bombs allowed them to place munitions on the rooftop of a vehicle. GPS integration allowed them to place munitions on target without having the hassle of a laser designator involved. And GPS allowed for precise timing and navigation. It wasn’t just a matter of being in the right place. Precise navigation would mean more efficient fuel use, which would extend range, decrease refueling, and increase the non-fuel payload.
Then the 2010s had come, and people had begun seriously worrying about the overreliance on GPS. What about the next war? What about GPS spoofing? For less than fifty dollars, one could purchase a cheap GPS jamming device that would block the signal around a vehicle. For a few hundred dollars, a person could purchase a GPS jammer that would extend for several city blocks.
The military planners began worrying about the need for antijammers to augment their GPS navigation and GPS-guided munitions.
Now, flying over the Pacific at just under the speed of sound, Hightower shook his head at that tactic. They didn’t need to worry about someone jamming the GPS signal. They needed to worry about a nation-state destroying the entire GPS network.
Which was exactly what China had done. Their cyber warriors had used — ironically — an American-made worm to hack into the GPS and military communications satellites. From there, they had been able to render many of them useless.
“Compton, how we doing?” Compton was only a first lieutenant, the junior of their two combat systems officers on board. This was his first deployment. But he was a sharp kid. Asked good questions when appropriate, but also knew when to keep his mouth shut. He was doing a lot of the navigating for this mission and coordinating with the refueling plane.
“Good, Hightower. Tanker should be about one hundred miles to the north.”
“Roger.” The senior combat systems officer was giving him pointers, he knew. And probably double-checking everything he did. No room for error today.
The KC-135 was right where it was supposed to be. None of the normal communications were made during today’s refueling. They were being covert. They used lights to signal when they were ready. The refueling probe came down from the tanker, and Hightower carefully maneuvered his large, sleek bomber into position. Aerial refueling was extremely difficult. His aircraft was blown around by strong wind gusts as well as slices of wake turbulence from the tanker. He had to make constant tiny adjustments with his yoke and throttle to get into the right position. A crewman aboard the KC-135 saw Hightower’s copilot flash his light, the signal to lower the probe the rest of the way. In it went, and thousands of pounds of jet fuel began streaming into his aircraft.
Minutes later, they were back on their own. The other B-1B trailing them was now taking its turn refueling. Then the two aircraft continued on their way, north over the East China Sea, and on into the Yellow Sea.
“Sir, we have good link with the RAMROD.” RAMROD was the callsign for the US Navy destroyer that would be jamming the North Korean coastline during their mission.
“Roger.” Hightower turned to his copilot. “You have the controls.”
“I have the controls.”
“Be right back. Gonna use the little boys’ room before we start.”