Memorial, sitting erect and unmoving in his seat, hands on either side
of him, staring straight ahead. McLanahan selected a special symbol in
the upper-right corner of the SMFD with his head-pointing system. He
spoke "Active" and it began to blink, indicating that it was active and
preparing to send data. "I'm calling up satellite-targeting data from
the latest NIRTSat surveillance scan, " he told Ormack. "In a few
minutes I should have an updated radar image of the target area, and
with the composite infrared and visual data, I should be able to program
the SLAM missile for a direct hit. We got this bomb run wired." ABOARD
THE F-23 WILDCAT FIGHTERS The F-23 pilots, Lieutenant Colonel Mirisch
and Captain Ed Milo, felt as if they were chasing a ghost ship-there was
an attacker out there, but he barely registered on any of their sensors.
If they didn't find him within the next five minutes or less, they would
lose max points for any intercepts done outside the MOA. Well, Mirisch
thought, this mystery plane couldn't escape the Mark One attack sensor
system-their eyeballs. Jarrel's Air Force Battle had B-1 and B-2
bombers in it now, so just maybe this attacker was one of those stealthy
beasts. Mirisch noted the direction of the shadows on the ground and
began to search not for the airplanes themselves, but for big, dark
shadows-a bomber's shadow was always many times larger than the plane
itself, and there was no camouflaging a shadow. Got it! "Tally ho!"
Mirisch shouted. He was so excited that he forgot his radio discipline:
"Jesus Christ, I got a B-2 bomber, one o'clock low! It's a fucking B-2
bomber!" That's why their attack radars wouldn't lock on or the
infrared scanners wouldn't work-the B-2 was supposed to have the radar
cross-section of a bird, and birds don't paint too well on radar.
Mirisch was expecting a black aircraft, but this bat-winged monstrosity
was painted tan and green camouflage, blending in perfectly with the
surrounding terrain. It was flying very low, but the late afternoon's
shadows were long and it was a dead giveaway. At night, Mirisch
thought, it would be next to impossible to find this bastard. "Raider
flight, this is Raider Two-Zero flight, we got a Bravo Two bomber,
repeat, Bravo Two, at low altitude. Closing to... Suddenly there was
the worst squealing and chirping on the UHF radio frequency that Mirisch
had ever heard. It completely blotted out not only the UHF channel, but
the scram bled FM HAVE QUICK channel as well. Except for the Godawful
screeching, the jamming was no big deal-they had a visual on the bomber,
and no B-2 was going to outrun, outmaneuver, or outgun an F-23. This
guy is toast. The newcomer, whoever he was, was too far out to matter
now. He would deal with the B-2, then go back and take care of the
newcomer with the big jammer. Mirisch had a solid visual on the B-2, so
he took the lead back from Milo and began his run. The B-2 had begun a
series of 5-turns, flying lower and lower until his shadow really did
seem to disappear, trying to break Mirisch's visual contact. In fact it
did take a lot of concentration to stay focused on the bomber as it slid
around low hills and gullys, but the closer the F-23 got, the easier it
was to stay on him. Now, with the B-2 noticeably closer, the attack
radar finally locked on at four miles. The heavy jamming from the
bomber occasionally managed to break the range gate lock and spoil his
firing solution, but the F-23's attack radar was frequency-agile enough
to escape the jamming long enough for the lead-computing sight to
operate. No sweat. ABOARD WHISPER ONE-SEVEN The throttles were at full
military thrust, and Cobb had the three-hundred~thousand~pound bomber
right at three hundred feet above the ground, and occasionally he
cheated and nudged it even lower. He knew the wild 5-turns ate up speed
and allowed the fighters to move closer, but one advantage of the
water-based custom camouflage job on the B-2 that had been applied
specifically for this mission was that it degraded the one attack option
that no B-2 bomber could defend against-a visual gun attack. With the
fighter's attack radars in standby or in intermittent use, the B-2's
most powerful sensor was the ALQ-158 digital tail-warning radar, a
pulse-Doppler radar that scanned the skies behind the bomber and
presented a picture of the positions of the fighters as they prosecuted
their attack. Each time the fighters began to maneuver close enough for
a gun shot, McLanahan called out a warning and Cobb jinked away, never
in a predictable pattern, always mixing sudden altitude changes in with
subtle speed changes. Without their attack radar, the F-23 pilots had
to rely on visual cues to decide when to open fire. If nothing else,
they were losing points or wasting ammunition-at best, the B-2 might
escape out of the MOA before the fighters closed within lethal range.
Plus, they had one more ace in the hole, but they were running out of
time. "Guardian must be around here close to be blotting out the radios
like this, " McLanahan told Cobb and Ormack, "but I have no way of
knowing where he is. He might be only a few minutes away. ... ABOARD
THE F-23 WILDCAT FIGHTERS "Fox three, Fox three, Raider Two-Zero, guns
firing, " Mirisch cried out on the primary radio. The B-2 had finally
remained steady for the first time in this entire chase, long enough for
Milo to safely join on his wing and for Mirisch to get his first clean
"shots" off at the big bomber's tail. The B-2 had accelerated, really
accelerated-it was traveling close to six hundred nautical miles per
hour, much faster than he ever expected such a huge plane to travel.
Suddenly the threat scope lit up like a gaudy Christmas wreath. There
was a powerful fighter radar somewhere up ahead, dead ahead, not a
search radar, but a solid missile lockon. A "Missile Launch" warning
soon followed. It wasn't coming from Milo-there was another fighter out
there, and it was attacking them! His RHAWS was indicating several
different threats in several different directions-surface-to-air
missiles, fighters, search radars, at least a dozen of them. It was as
if six VPVO sites and six "enemy" fighters had appeared all at once.
Mirisch had no choice. He couldn't see his attackers, he had no radio
contact or data link with GCI to tell him what was out there, he was
less than two thousand feet above ground, and the loud, incessant noise
of the jamming on all channels, bleeding through the radios into the
interphone, was beginning to cause disorientation. He checked to be
sure where Milo was the kid had managed to stay in formation with him,
thank God, and had not yet moved into the lead position-then called out
on the emergency Guard channel, "Powder River players, this is a Raider
flight, knock it off' knock it off' knock it off!" Whoever was jamming
him obviously heard the call, because the noise jamming stopped
immediately. Mirisch leveled off at two thousand feet, waited until Milo
was back safely in position on his wing, then scanned the skies for the
unknown attacker. He spotted
it that instant. He couldn't believe his
eyes. It was a damned B-52 bomber. But it was like no B-52 he had ever
seen before. As it banked right, toward the center of the Powder River
MOA, Mirisch saw a long pointed nose, a rounded, swept-back V-tail,
eight huge turbofan engines, and twin fuel tanks on each wingtip. But
the strange bomber also sported a long wedge-shaped fairing on its upper
fuselage resembling a specialized radar compartment, and... he saw
pylons between the fuselage and the inboard engine nacelles, with what
looked like AIM- 120 air-to-air missiles installed! "Lead, I've got a
tally on an aircraft at our eleven o'clock high, five miles... "I see
it, Two, I see it, " Mirisch replied. Dammit, Mirisch cursed to
himself, why didn't you pick that sucker up two minutes ago? But it was
too late to blame anyone else. Whatever that plane was out there, it
had "killed" them both. "I don't know what the hell it is, but I see
it." ABOARD WHISPER ONE-SEVEN, OVER POWDER RIVER MOA, MONTANA General
Ormack strained against his shoulder harness to look out the B-2
bomber's cockpit windscreens just in time to see the huge EB-52
Megafortress do a wing wag" and then bank away to the north. "Jesus,
what a beautiful plane. We could use a hundred of those." McLanahan
thing is tailor-made for the Air Battle Force. You give every heavy
bomber going in a Megafortress to provide jamming and air-defense
support, you've got an awesome force." McLanahan and the other
participants at the Strategic Warfare Center had been hearing about the
EB-52 for weeks. Nobody had expected it to show up during the
exercises. But it had, and McLanahan was right, it was awesome. It had
a radome on its spine that had been taken off an NC-135 "Big Crow." The
radome could probably shut down all communications in and out of Rapid
City. It certainly jammed everything the F-23s who'd been on
McLanahan's tail had on them. The plane also had capability of carrying
twenty-two AMRAAMStwelve on the wings, up to ten internally on a rotary
launcher, including rear-fighting capability. Plus HARM missiles, TACIT
RAINBOW antiradar missiles, rear-firing Stingers, Harpoon antiship
missiles, conventional cruise missiles, SLAM and Maverick TV-guided
missiles, Striker and Hammer glide-bombs, Durandal antirunway bombs...
General Brad Elliott had six such planes. One was under repair and two
more were authorized. They would revolutionize SAC and SWC. PUERTO
PRINCESA AIRFIELD, PALAWAN, THE PHILIPPINES SAME TIME The first
instructor pilot to show up on Colonel Renaldo Tamalko's orders that
evening was twenty-three-year-old Lieutenant J~~e Borillo, one of the
newest and most energetic young flight instructors at Puerto Princesa;
it was no surprise that an enthusiastic hotshot such as he reported
immediately when the squadron recall was issued. The "old heads"
usually answered the phone call right away-Sergeant Komos had all the
phone numbers of the pilots' mistresses and girlfriends as well as their
home numbers-but took their time getting back to base. Colonel Tamalko
paired Borillo up with Captain Fuentes, an experienced and competent but
unmotivated weapon systems officer (WSO), and he took a relatively new
WSO named Pilas with him as his backseater. The maintenance squadron
commander, Captain Libona, was also wide-eyed and enthusiastic as
Colonel Tamalko made his way out to the flight line to inspect his jet
and brief Borillo. After the inspection and briefing, Tamalko asked
Libona, "Did we get a confirmation that this wasn't a drill?"
"No, sir. Sergeant Komos, who called you, hasn't been able to get any
confirmation at all. We're assuming it is real."
"Don't be so sure. What about a confirmation on that Captain Banio, the
Navy guy who alerted us? Anyone authenticate his identity?' Libona
shook his head. "No one's been able to, sir. Tamalko let out a string
of four-lettered words. This was either a really well-executed drill...
or it wasn't a drill at all. He sure as hell didn't know. More than
likely, it was a drill, but he still had to respond as if it wasn't.
After all, what with all the tension in the Spratlys. . Tamalko turned
to Borillo. "Once we're airborne, you leave your fucking finger off the
trigger, hotshot, or so help me I'll shoot you down myself. Stay on my
wing, keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. If the Navy files a bad
report because of you, you'll be flying a garbage scow on Mindanao five
minutes after you land. Now mount up and let's see what the hell is
going on out there." Tamalko stomped off to do a fast walkaround,
leaving Borillo and Libona in his wake. Five minutes later the two
fighters were airborne and heading north across Honda Bay toward Ulugan
Bay. "Bear flight, one-three-seven point one-five, " Tamalko radioed to
Borillo, directing him to dial in the assigned Navy fleet common
frequency. There was a pause; then: "Say again, lead?" Oh, Christ!
Tamalko thought, and hissed: "One-three-seven point one-five." Borillo
should have known enough to ask his WSO for the frequency if he missed
it-asking the flight leader to repeat a new frequency was a mortal sin
during night formation flight. "Two, " Borillo finally replied. Tamalko
switched frequencies himself and was about to call to order Borillo to
report up on frequency, but the channel was a mass of confused voices in
hit, I'm hit . . . get over here, someone, help me . . . missile
in the air! Missile in the air . . . ! Hard to port . . . Watch
it . 1" "Bear flight, check!" Tamalko yelled. He heard a faint "Two"
over the radio, and he hoped that was Borillo. "Cowboy, Cowboy, this is
Bear Zero-one flight on fleet common. Over."
"Cowboy" was the call sign Sergeant Komos had given him for Captain
Banio's ship, but Tamalko couldn't tell who was on freq or what was
going on. There was so much chatter on the channel that he wasn't sure
if anyone heard him. "Cowboy, come in!"
"Bear flight... Bear flight, this is Cowboy." The voice was frantic.
"What is your position? Say your position!"
"I need authentication before I can report, Cowboy "We are under attack,
Bear flight, we are under attack, " the voice-now firmly racked with
terror-replied. "Smoke . fire in all sections... we need you over
here right now, Bear flight, we need you down here right now!"
"Mode two, three, and four squawk is set, Cowboy, " Tamalko reported,
informing the ship that his radar identification system was set and
operating. The ship's radar should be able to identify his coded
signals and give him steering commands, if it was indeed Cowboy he was
talking to. Part of an exercise would be to check if Tamalko would fly
off following directions from an unverified radio voice, and Tamalko was
going to play this one by the book-as much as possible. "Give me a
vector, Cowboy."
"Can't... Combat section evacuated... ship on fire, Bear flight.
Please, help us...!" And the
n Tamalko saw it, off the nose at about
forty miles into the inky night sky-two blobs of light in the ocean,
shimmering dots of red and yellow fire. The dot off his nose was dimmer
than the northern one, which looked like a huge magnesium flare, as
bright as watching an arc-welding flame. Just then he saw several
bursts of light issue from some other nearby spots in the dark ocean
farther to the south, with tracers speeding out farther to the west.
"Cowboy, I see fires and tracers. Who is shooting?"
"Bear flight, this is Cowboy, " a different voice came on the radio.
"Bear flight, this is Lieutenant Sapao, engineering officer aboard the
frigate Rajah Humabon. We are under attack by Chinese naval warships. We
have been hit by missile fire. Patrol boat Nueva Viscaya also hit by
missile fire.. ." The slightly calmer report was interrupted by shouts
and cries, and the newcomer Sapao issued a few orders of his own before
returning to the radio: "Chinese warships estimated thirty miles west of
Ulugan bay, estimated ten vessels including one destroyer. Also Chinese
attack aircraft in vicinity, a naval-warfare craft launching antiship
missiles and torpedoes. Frigate Rajah Lakandula is operating south of
our position, and patrol boat Ca ma rines Sur is assisting the Nueva
Viscaya. Can you assist, Bear flight?" As Tamalko got closer, he could
see more and more detailsthere were indeed two ships burning in the
Palawan Passage just outside Ulugan Bay. Sheets of gunfire continued to
erupt from the southernmost ship, which was darting back and forth,
firing in all directions. "Cowboy, can you give us the position of the
aircraft?"
"Negative, negative, Bear flight, " Sapao's tortured voice responded.
The transmission began to break up. "Portable radio running out of
power... negative, our combat systems are out and we are beginning
evacuation procedures. If Rajah Lakandula comes up on frequency, he can
assist-" The transmission went dead. Tamalko started to feel uneasy. The
possibility that this wasn't an exercise hadn't been fully realized
until now. Naturally, he assumed... Of course, it could still be an
exercise, he reasoned, although a very elaborate one. He knew he