Flight Of The Old Dog

WASHINGTON, D.C

The President examined a large wall-sized chart projected on the rear wall of the White House Situation Room. He ran a finger over the black line, making sure it ran right through Kavaznya.

The line wasn't quite straight-Arawn by a computer, the Great Circle course was a series of straight lines representing dozens of heading changes. But it was the shortest istance, the President knew, to an encounter that now seemed unavoidable.

General Wilbur Curtis and his aide stood behind their chairs watching the President. Curtis knew that the President was looking at something no other American president had ever seen-a chart of an actual peacetime attack plan against the Soviet Union. Even though hundreds of such plans existed, none had ever been presented to the President for his direct approval.

After quickly examining the chart, the President took his seat at the head of the oval table. Curtis kept watching the President as the other advisers all took their seats after him.

Dark rings had formed under the President's eyes, he was noticeably thinner, and his shoulders drooped.

Well, it was a terrible strain on all of them, because this young President relied so heavily on his advisors in foreign affairs. He was extremely effective when it came to domestic problems and he was immensely popular at home, but overseas it was a different matter. He and his Cabinet had tried to convince the world that the Soviet Union was threatening the United States, trying to provoke a conflict-but few believed him, mostly because they were afraid to find out it was the truth. The consequences of that were too scary. The war of words had reduced Secretary of State Marshall Brent as well.

His usual polish and spirit were noticeably dimmed.

Now, the laser had taken another life, and the President was looking at what he feared most-a direct assault against Kavaznya. In the U.S.S.R.…

Assembled were his National Security Council, his Cabinet and the Joint Chiefs of Staff. They had already held a hastily formed meeting of their own. Now it was time for them to present the plan they had come up with.

"Let's have it, General," the President said, prompting the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Wilbur Curtis nodded and stood.

"Yes, sir," the general began. "Two B-1B Excaliburs from the new Tenth Bombardment Wing at Ellsworth Air Force Base will execute this mission.

Yesterday they were flown from Dreamland, where they were undergoing design modification, to Ellsworth, where each was armed with two AGM-130

Striker TV-infrared-guided bombs. Per your order, sir. It's the largest non-nuclear standoff weapon in our arsenal. It uses a small strap-on rocket motor to glide as far as fifteen miles from a low-altitude release, and it has the explosive power of one ton of TNT.

The bombardier can steer it to its target using a TV eye in the nose, or it can lock-on to a target with an infrared seeker.

"Two Strikers, General?"

"An added insurance factor, sir. Two weapons targeted for the same point. If the first weapon fails to detonate, the second, impacting five seconds later, will take out the target. If the first works, the second bomb will be destroyed in the blast. The second aircraft insures destruction of the primary target and has the additional task of air defense suppression."

There was a rustle of uneasiness, even from those who had been in on the entire Kavaznya crisis from the start. This was not an exercise or simulation Curtis was talking about.

"The bombers have been equipped with the standard coded switch and permissive-action-link security arrangements," Curtis continued.

"Those are the electronic switches between the weapons and the bombardiers' control panels. We're treating the Strikers just like nuclear weapons-no prearming or launch possible without a coded strike message from you, sir, transmitted via satellite communications or normal U.H.F traffic and entered into those switches. Two of the most experienced Excalibur crews will fly the missions-both senior Standardization-Evaluation crews. They've been briefed and are standing by.

"The aircraft will follow the routing as shown," Curtis said, pointing to the large computer-drawn chart. "From Ellsworth, they'll fly through Canada and then through Alaska. They'll be refueled by two KC-10 tankers out of Eielson Air Force Base, then proceed northward to the Arctic Ocean. They'll orbit just north of Point Barrow, in their SNOWTIME exercise orbit area, and wait for your first authorization message. The SAC Green Pine communications center at Point Barrow will relay the message.

"They will not be allowed to prearm the weapons at this point. If they are ordered to remain in this orbit area, it will appear to any outside observers as just another SNOWTIME arctic defense exercise. SAC holds them several times a year.

Both the Russians and the Canadians are accustomed to our bombers orbiting the Arctic Ocean on training missions.

"If they receive the first strike authorization, the aircraft will continue southwest to approximately sixty-seven degrees north latitude, escorted by the second group of KC-10 tankers. They will orbit in open airspace over the Chukchi Sea, north of Siberia, and wait for the second strike authorization message if we haven't transmitted both messages at the same time. If they receive the second authorization, they finish their final refueling and head over the target."

"How accustomed are outside observers to bombers orbiting so close to Russia?" Secretary of Defense Thomas Preston asked. "That's not one of our usual operating areas."

"True, sir," Curtis replied. "But the B-1s will still be well outside Russian radar coverage and still well within international airspace.

It's unlikely they will even be spotted. If the Russians do detect them, they may be suspicious, but we feel it's unlikely they will mount any counterforce. Air defense forces are extremely light this far north."

"Any chance of that laser attacking the B-1s?" the President asked.

He still could not believe the explanation he had been given for why the laser had managed to knock out the Fortress.

By timing their attack when they did, the Russians had managed to hit the space platform when the X-ray satellite launch cylinder was open and exposed. Had they waited only a few hours later, all the X-ray satellites would have been armed and the cylinder would have been closed.

"No chance, sir. "The President looked skeptical.

"The Soviets have to find a target before they can hit it, sir.

The B-1s won't be in range of the main tracking radar at Kavaznya until much later, within twenty or thirty miles of the target-they'll be terrain-masking in the mountains along the Kamchatka peninsula until then-and by the time the radar does spot them they'll be within range of the Striker glide bomb.

"But the orbiting mirror?"

"They used the orbiting mirror against an I.C.B.M four hundred miles up," Curtis asked. "An I.C.B.M with its motors running and red-hot climbing through the atmosphere is an easy target to be tracked by infrared-seeking satellites, and the Soviets have a data-link setup with the laser to attack I.C.B.Ms tracked by satellite. An aircraft flying only seven miles high can't be tracked accurately by an enemy satellite. They can't hit what they can't see. But if they somehow did fire the laser against the B-1s, we feel the dissipation of heat from shooting through the atmosphere, then reflecting the beam down through the atmosphere again would dilute the energy sufficiently for the aircraft to escape. No, sir, the B-1s are safe from the laser until close to Kavaznya. Then, the standoff range of the Strikers will keep them away from the laser. The laser should be destroyed before it can get a shot off."

Curtis now moved his pointer down into Asia. "Our people encounter little resistance or even chance of detection until fairly close to the target. They drop to low altitude just prior to crossing the north coast of Siberia, just before entering highaltitude warning radar c overage around the town of Ust-Chaun, but they can return to high altitude all across eastern Siberia to save fuel until approaching the northern edge of the Kamchatka peninsula. They drop to terrain-following attitudes down the Korakskiy and Sredinny mountain ranges to the target."

Curtis changed the slide, showing a greatly enlarged overhead photograph. "This is the latest satellite reconnaissance photo we have of Kavaznya, Mr. President, taken early last year. The B-1's primary target is here. "Curtis switched to an even more highly magnified view.

"This is the mirror housing, a large dome maybe forty feet in diameter from which, the CIA believes, the laser beam is projected into space.

Two Strikers will be programmed to impact here. Another glide-bomb is programmed for the main area and another is programmed for Ossora laser tracking rad Airfield north and east of Kavaznya.

"As you can see, sir, the mirror housing is very isolatedthe rest of the complex, except for the nuclear power plant, is underground. The nuclear power plant is considered an alternate target. If the crew experiences-" "No," the President asked. "Not the power plant, for God's sake. We might as well drop a nuke on them if we destroy a nuclear power plant. I won't be blamed for another Chernobyl.

No alternative target. If the B-1s can't attack the mirror dome, they don't go."

Curtis, not altogether happy with that, nodded, then again switched to a map of the North Pacific. "After their attack, the B-1s get back into the mountains and stay there at terrain following altitudes until they exit low altitude radar coverage, then cross the water toward Alaska. Possible landing sites are Attu, Shrmya, Elmendorf, and Eielson.

"After landing, they'll refuel and return to Ellsworth…

undoubtedly they will be regenerated and put on hard Slop strategic nuclear alert."

"If the base still exists," someone n#ittered.

The President stared at the sortie chartz' "It seems too…

easy," the President muttered.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. President?"

"It seems too simple," the President said, not much louder.

Curtis strained to hear. "Where are the defenses) You've told me for years about stiff Russian air defenses. Here…

there's no threat?"

"The target area is still heavily defended, the defenses include-" "The Excaliburs can make it, General?" the President interrupted. "They can get in?"

Curtis turned to Lieutenant-General Bradley James Elliott, who stood and faced the President.

"Gener al Elliott," the President asked. "Good to see you again. Well, what's your opinion, Brad?Can they make it?"

"I think so, sir. With the new equipment we've tested at Dreamland and built into these B-1s, they should stand a hell of a lot even see the chance. At low altitude, the Russians won't launch Excaliburs until forty, fifty, maybe sixty nautical miles from the target- At nine miles a minute, the Excaliburs will be on top of them before fighters could ever launch-and at two hundred feet in the mountains it'll be impossible to find them.

If they are attacked the Excaliburs have the fuel reserves for a supersonic sprint across the target, and they have specialized jammers, antiradar missiles, and even flying decoys to handle surface-to-air missiles. But the Strikers will be launched fifteen miles from the laser facility, so the B-1s can stay in the mountains all the way."

The President looked away and stared at the enlarged photograph of Kavaznya, then turned back to his advi sets.

"I know what you're thinking. This attack, the last thing any of us have wanted even to consider, now looks as if it will happen… our repeated attempts in the past few days to Move the Soviets from their inflexible position have failed.

Diplomatic channels remain open and it's still my hope that Secretary Brent will somehow get a commitment from the Soviets that will let me order these B-1s to scrub their mission.

But if he doesn't and I am forced to give the strike order, I want it very clear to everyone that what we will be conducting is, in a real sense, a police action. Every effort has been made to control and contain the scope of this mission. We do not want war with the Soviets. We do not want a nuclear exchange. But we must face the fact that the existence of the laser facility and the Soviet Union's Policy of a peacetime quarantine of Asia will (ventually cripple our ability to defend ourselves against attack or to mount a second strike in reprisal. We must, it seems, take this action now, with its inherent risks, to avoid the certainty of far greater risks later… General Curtis, go over the fail-safe procedures again.

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs stood. "Sir, we need a direct order from you to launch the two bombers, a second one to allow them to proceed past the established SNOWTIME arctic exercise orbit area they usually operate in, and we need a third, separate order to allow the bombers to cross the fail-safe point and prearm their missiles. The third message is their authorization to strike.

"Bombers will continuously monitor SATCOM and HF radios for coded recall or termination instructions, and they can be recalled at any time. They cannot proceed on their missions unless they have two one-hundred-percent operable missiles and an aircraft that meets their tactical doctrine specifications.

Our communications satellites will be programmed to automatically transmit a recall message every half hour unless we instruct them not to. So if communications are disrupted the mission will automatically terminate."

The President nodded, looked around the room. No one else offered any comment or suggestion. After an unendurably long moment, the President reached down and opened the redcovered folder prepared for him the day before. He broke the sea] and reviewed the document inside authorizing the first step of Curtis' plan.

DREAMLAND

Patrick McLanahan was sitting alone in the semidarkness of his cramped, rickety wooden barracks room when he heard a faint knock on the door.

He smiled and opened it.

Standing in the doorway, wearing a dark gray flight jacket, fliehtsuit and insulated winter flying boots just like his own, was his partner, Dave Luger. Luger had his hands thrust in his pockets and was scuffling the sand around with his toes.

"Ready to go, Muck?" he said, still poking around in the dirt.

McLanahan glanced at his watch and looked at the sky. "Oh seven-hundred hours," he asked. "You're a bit late, aren't you?" Luger checked his watch and shrugged.

"What difference does it make?Last two days, there hasn't been any reason to be on time. All we've been doing is sitting on our behinds.

McLanahan had turned to pick up his jacket, which was slung over the bedpost behind him. "Wait a minute," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "What am I hearing?Is this the same guy who has been bitching for the past two months about the hours we've been putting in?

The same guy who every night for three weeks threatened to strangle me for arranging it so he'd be brought here to Dreamland?"

Luger fell into his ever-familiar gunfighter's slouch. "Yeah, well, I still don't have fond memories of Lieutenant Briggs barging in on me while I was with Sharon to say that I was going to be taking a little trip. And having that prima donna Anderson on my ass fourteen hours a day hasn't been any picnic either. But ever since those B-1s lit out for Ellsworth two days ago, it's been boring as hell. I mean, what the hell is there to do if you're not in the simulator or out on a training jaunt?"

"Not a damn thing," McLanahan said as he closed the door to his room and locked it. Actually, that wasn't true, he thought. He had been able to spend more time with Wendy these past couple days, and was thankful for that. It was the first real chance he'd had since she came back with the other civilians working on the project to get past that stony facade she put up and find out what she was about. Before these past two days, even in their late-night study sessions together, she had stayed detached. Now, after spending some relaxed hours with her, he understood better the reason for her detachment.

She wanted first and foremost to be accepted as a professional, as someone who could step into any man's role and perform with maximum efficiency. He guessed she'd had a tough time in this male-dominated Air Force world, and that concealing a part of herself-the part that was soft and feminine-had after a while become an automatic defense.

He couldn't help comparing her to Catherine, whose privileged upbringing had made her much more self-assured and outgoing and yet well, less interesting…

"Hey, Pat," Luger said as they walked to the briefing shack, why do you suppose Elliott called a meeting this morning?

Think he's going to give us our walking papers?"

"Maybe it's more than that."

"What do you mean?"

McLanahan continued walking. They were nearing the women's barracks.

"Well, it seems to me that we wouldn't have spent all that time testing out that equipment on the Old Dog, and then installing equivalent systems in those B-1s, if the B-1s weren't being used for something.

Maybe something big. Take that terrain cartridge we were testing before the B-1s left. Well, Bill Dalton, the nav for Zero-Six-Four, said something about it corresponding to an area over the Sarir Calanscio Desert in Libya. That's complete bull. Those planes will be flying through the mountains," Both men were silent for a moment, lost in their own thoughts. "Hey, there's Wendy and Angelina," Luger said, spotting the two coming out of the women's barracks. He waved to them and the four joined up a few yards short of the briefing shack.

"See we're not the only ones who're late," Angelina Pereira said with a smile. She was the only one of them not wearing a flightsuit. Nice lady, McLanahan thought to him self. Nice and tough.

She reminded him a little bit of his mother. He nodded toward Luger.

"Dave here had to get his beauty sleep. Good buddy that I am, I decided to wait for him."

Wendy looked worried. "Pat," she said, "do you have any idea why General Elliott called us together?"

McLanahan shrugged. "I expect we'll find out soon enough," he said as he opened the door to the shack.

General Bradley Elliott removed a pair of sunglasses and looked out over his captive audience. He wore a thick green nylon winter-weight flight jacket over a set of standard starched Air Force fatigues with subdued green and black name tags, a subdued Strategic Air Command patch, and subdued black stars on his collar. He propped himself on a desk at the front of the room and twirled his sunglasses absently.

"Well, I'm glad that all of you have seen fit to put in an appearance," Elliott asked. "Even if a bit late. "He looked at the four stragglers who had just entered the room.

"I've called all of you here," he said, "to provide some explanation for the events of the past two days, and of the past few months. As most of you have surmised, the improvements and modifications we made in those two Excaliburs were not implemented on the off chance that they might prove of use at some future date. They were carried out with a definite purpose in mind. "Elliott paused to stare at the faces around the room. Directly in front of him, Colonel James Anderson sat straight in his chair. To his immediate left was Lewis Campos, his forehead shiny with sweat. At the back of the room, Patrick McLanahan sat staring at the floor, his legs straight out.

"Ladies and gentlemen "Elliot said, 'approximately twenty-five minutes ago two B-1s-the B-1s you've worked on these past few months-took off from Ellsworth Air Force Base. They are launching as part of a possible strike force on an area in the Soviet Union."

There was a collective gasp from those in the room.

McLanahan felt suddenly sick to his stomach. He looked over at Luger and shook his head.

"I said possible. They'll orbit in narrowing circles near Russia while the politicians still work for a negotiated solution.

If there isn't one, the B-1s go in…"

"A negotiated solution to what?" Lewis Campos asked, his voice rising above other whispered comments.

"Quiet down, people," Elliott said, opened his locked briefcase, extracted a series of photographs and handed them to Lieutenant Colonel John Ormack, who passed each to his left.

" The photographs that are being circulated," Elliott went on "show a facility that has been built in the Soviet Union in a small fishing village called Kavaznya. The Soviets have built an actual anti-satellite and anti-ballistic missile laser there. In the past few months they've been using it."

"On what?" Dave Luger asked as McLanahan studied the satellite reconnaissance photographs. "There hasn't been anything in the news-" "And there won't be," General Elliott interrupted. "Injecting public sentiment into the situation could make it more volatile than it already is. The fact of the matter is that the Kavaznya laser has proved very effective. Although the Russians haven't even admitted the presence of the weapon, it has.destroyed over five billion dollars worth of American equipment and has taken thirteen lives."

"MY God," Luger said, reflecting the collective sentiment.

"Our job is nearly finished here," Elliott continued. "I'll want all of you to stand by for the next few hours in the unlikely event SAC command needs your input on some aspect of the B-1s' gear that may not be functioning correctly, but after that you'll be free to go. I've already had the Transportation office arrange your flights back. You also are ordered not to reveal a word of what I have just told you.

You all have topsecurity clearance, and I felt you were entitled to know what you've been a part of. Knowing should also make you acutely aware of the necessity of not revealing to anyone ever what you have been doing here."

Suddenly the door to the briefing shack was thrown open and Lieutenant Harold Briggs hurried into the room. He halted two steps away from Elliott. "General," Briggs said, "we've got a problem.

Elliott's face turned pale- He noticed that Briggs was wearing his short-barreled Uzi submachine pistol mounted on a shoulder harness, and that the harness had three hand grenades clipped into it. "Hal?"

"Got a report of a light airplane that dropped off radar coverage into the area a few minutes ago, General," Briggs asked. "Ridge-hopped in from Vegas, we think. We've got security patrolling the area from Dreamland on out."

"Did it make it into Dreamland?" Elliott asked. The odds against it were tremendous-any kind of aircraft over a few hundred pounds in weight would be picked up by a dozen different sensors patrolling the desert.

"We're anticipating the worst. "Luger and McLanahan were already out of their chairs.

Anderson was leaning forward, ready to move on Elliott's order.

"James," he said, "get your people over to the Old Dog's hangar right away. They'll be safer there."

Anderson nodded and turned to the others. "All right, you heard the general. Let's get moving."

As McLanahan hurriedly led Wendy out of the briefing shack and over to the Old Dog's black hangar, he heard the sound of gunfire and explosions. Looking to his left, he noticed a billowing cloud of smoke at the entrance to the compound.

" Holy shit, " Luger said behind him, " we're under attack!" In less than half a minute each member of the Old Dog test team was in the hangar and McLanahan was bolting the door.

He had just turned away from the door and was heading into the bowels of the hangar when he heard a pounding outside and Elliott's voice. He opened the door for General Elliott and Briggs.

"It's more serious than we thought," Elliott told Anderson, who had moved forward to join them. "You must-" He never finished. The first explosion was felt rather than seen. Its impact point was on the far corner of the black hangar, on the roof. To Elliott, it felt as if the entire four-acre roof above their heads was vibrating like a sheet of tin.

Elliott and Ormack were thrown off their feet by the shock wave.

Anderson tumbled against the Old Dog's front wheels, landing on his head and shoulders.

Briggs managed to stay on his feet. Still gripping his Uzi, he helped Elliott up off the hangar floor.

"Take cover, General," Briggs said as the second explosion came, three times more powerful than the first. A fifty-foot hole was blown into the roof a hundred feet from the Old Dog's left wingtip, showering the wing with bits of metal and concrete. The wall beneath the hole ripped open as if someone had pulled a giant zipper down the side of the black hangar all the way to the ground. An acetylene line burst and flames shot skyward. Automatic gunfire erupted outside the open mouth of the hangar. The opening was filled with running workers and armed security police trying to spot the attackers and dodge the stampede of terrified workers. Bodies began to fall.

Elliott shook debris out of his hair and struggled to clear his eyes and throat of dust and gas. He turned and saw the first impact point on the far corner, the second right beside the bomber, and the gunfire outside the hangar. He did not need to be a general to realize that the next mortar round was going to be right over their heads and that more bodies were going to pile up outside.

"John. "He grabbed Ormack and put his mouth next to his ear. "Get aboard. Start 'em up."

"What?"

"The engines. Start 'em up. Get this thing moving."

"Moving?"

"Taxi the goddamn plane out of here, they're going to blow this place apart. Move. "He shoved Ormack toward the hatch.

Ormack tumbled to the polished concrete floor, and for a split second Elliott thought he wasn't going to get up. Then Ormack scrambled up on his hands and knees, found the boarding hatch, and climbed inside.

"Campos, Pereira. "He found the defensive system operator and his assistant stumbling around the bomber's right wing, bumping into the Scorpion pylon, not sure which way to turn or run. Elliott grabbed them both by the necks, ducked them under the bomber's belly. "Get aboard."

Angelina reacted instantly, scrambling up the ladder. Campos, confused, watched as his assistant disappeared inside. He turned to Elliott.

"No, I can't "Get up there, goddammit.

"I won't get into that thing. "Campos used his bony elbows and fists and broke free, bolted toward the open hangar door, ignoring bursts of gunfire erupting all around him. He crashed against the edge of the hangar opening and paused, then turned and took one last look at the black bomber.

s," Elliott ordered, "take cover "Campo Too late. Just as Elliott called out Campos turned and ran outside. As he turned, a third explosion tore into the front of the black hangar, ripping out the entire left side of the building, and Campos disappeared in a blinding flash of light and a screech of burning, shattering metal. The left side of the hangar opening sagged and crashed to the floor.

Elliott could only watch and duck as the hangar opening crashed down and bullets whistled around him. He turned and saw Anderson just getting to his feet at the front of the plane, his head and face bleeding.

Elliott hurried over to help Anderson climb aboard the bomber. He felt a sting on his right calf, reached down and his hand came back covered with blood. He put his right leg down to stop himself and see what was wrong. It refused to support his weight and he sagged helplessly to the floor.

"General," Anderson said, crawling over to where Elliott lay bleeding, "we've got to get out One of Anderson's eyes refused to stay steady, rolling from side to side.

"Get on board," Elliott ordered. A high-pitched scream issued from the number four engine. Anderson turned and saw exhaust fumes bellowing from the nacelle.

"The engines… they're starting "Ormack's on board. Get going."

Elliott noticed a huge gash on Anderson's head, struggled to push himself off the floor to help Anderson get to the hatch. The scream of the engine changed to a roar, and soon the number five engine sounded.

"Jim hurry Elliott managed to rise to his left leg. As he did a line of six red holes, big as quarters, appeared on Anderson's gray flightsuit from his collar bone to right thigh. Anderson did not seem to notice. He continued to walk toward the open hatch, then stumbled into the bomber's sleek black side and crashed to the floor, leaving a red streak on the Old Dog's polished surface.

Suddenly Hal Briggs was beside Elliott, firing his automatic pistol one-handed at whatever moved outside. Again he dragged the general to his feet, the Uzi smoking in his right fist. "We've got to get you on the plane, General."

"No, I've got- "Get on that plane.

"Chocks… got to disconnect the-" "I've done all that, General.

Chocks, air, power, pins, streamers. Now get your ass on board." Briggs fired at a running figure in the doorway, then hauled the resisting general up into the hatch, where a pair of hands McLanahan's — grabbed the general by the lapels of his fatigues and hauled his feet clear of the hatch.

"Briggs," Elliott yelled. "Get up here, now."

McLanahan put Elliott's hands on the ladder, and the general realized what he had and pulled himself painfully up to the upper deck.

McLanahan then turned back to the open hatch and extended a hand to Briggs, who was on one knee, firing into the distance.

"Get on board, you jerk," McLanahan said.

"Not my plane, my friend," he said as a loud ringing started in McLanahan's ears. "Adios."

Briggs was gone, and a second later the hatch snapped shut and the outside latch locked into position.

McLanahan was about to open the hatch, but the Megafortress made an incredible lurch and he was thrown toward the back of the offensive crew compartment.

"We're movin'," Luger said in amazement.

"Either that or they just blew half the fucking plane away," McLanahan said, got back to his feet and went for the ladder to the upper deck.

What McLanahan saw on the upper deck made his guts turn.

Wendy Tork and Angelina Pereira were standing over a dazed and bleeding Bradley Elliott. Pereira had been knocked off her feet by the sudden motion of the bomber and was just regaining her balance, her jeans and blue workshirt covered with blood.

Elliott looked as if he had been wading in red dye. His right leg was covered with dark, clotted blood. Blood was everywhere-on Pereira, on Tork, on Elliott, on the deck, on the circuit breaker panels-everywhere. Wendy was trying to wrap an arm of her flight jacket around the two large openings in Elliott's calf. Elliott himself was hovering just above consciousness; awake enough to feel the intense pain, groggy enough to be unable to move or help anyone. Sweat poured down his face.

McLanahan. "Ormack swung around in his seat. "Get up here. "Ormack was in the co-pilot's seat, checking the gauges.

McLanahan half-ran, half-crawled up front and knelt between the pilot and co-pilot's seats. He stared out through the sleek cockpit windows over the drooping needle nose of the Old Dog.

"We're moving."

"Damn right," Ormack said, "Sit down. Help me."

McLanahan stared at Ormack.

"Well, sit down. "Ormack grabbed McLanahan by the jacket and yanked him forward into the pilot's seat. He grabbed Anderson's headset and slappej it over his head.

"We taking off?"

"If we can," Ormack said.

"We have clearance?"

"I got an order. From him."ormack jerked a thumb toward Elliott.

"He owns the six thousand square miles we're sitting on, not to mention this plane. And this hangar, which they're about to blow up on to.

Now listen. Just watch the gauges-RPMs, fuel flow the left."

Ormack pushed, EGTs. If anything looks like it's winding down, yell.

Watch me on the throttle forward, and the huge plane rushed toward the hangar opening.

"The door's down, we won't make it. Cut it right-" Ormack gripped the wheel, moved the steering ratio lever on the center console from TAKEOFF LAND to TAXI, nudged the right rudder pedal. The bomber swung gently to the right.

Ormack reached down to the center console and moved the steering ratio lever back to TAKEOFF LAND."That's all the room I got."

"I don't think it'll make it McLanahan watched as the hangar door came toward them.

Before they reached the opening he saw Hal Briggs kneeling at the door opening, trying to take cover behind a fallen steel beam. Letting the Uzi He saw the wingtip rushing toward drop onto its neck strap, Briggs held his hands out and apart as far as he could, gave McLanahan a thumbs-up, then took off at a dead run outside the hangar.

"How're we looking?"

"Hal said four feet."

"Four feet what?"

His answer was a head-pounding, wrenching scream of metal that thundered from the left wingtip. The Old Dog veered sharply to the left. A less painful but still frightening crunch of metal exploded from the right wingtip.

Ormack looked at the fuel gauges. "We lost the left tiptank.

Maybe both of them."

McLanahan didn't want to look back. All he could see were dozens of bodies littering the road ahead of them, a burning fuel truck and overturned security police trucks. There was still a handful of cops firing into the wooden barracks outside the fence surrounding the black hangar.

"Lucky this whole dry lake is a runway," McLanahan said.

Ormack nodded. "Just watch the gauges. I hope they can get the fence open-" A Jeep pulled up beside them, sped ahead of the bomber easily-although Ormack had jammed the Old Dog's eight throttles up as far as they could go, the half-million-pound bomber accelerated slowly.

"It's Hal!"

In the distance McLanahan could see Briggs' Jeep speed toward the closed gates. He could tell brakes were being applied, but the Jeep crashed headlong into the right side of the gate going at least fifty miles an hour. Intentionally or not, it did the trick. The right side of the wide gate burst open. The Jeep did two full donuts in the sand-covered concrete, then came to a stop. Steam poured out of the radiator. The right side of the gate was half-open, the Jeep was stalled on the runway driveway, and the left side of the gate was free but still closed.

"C'mon, buddy," McLanahan murmured, "you can do it. "The distance between the bomber and the gate was decreasing rapidly. Briggs was trying to get the Jeep restarted. He gave it a few seconds, then jumped out and started pushing.

Ormack brought the throttles back to idle, which seemed to make no difference.

"We gotta slow down."

As if in reply, three mortar shells exploded in front of the bomber.

Briggs tripped and sprawled in the sand. Another explosion created a huge waterspout of sand off the right wing, and Briggs and his Jeep were lost in the rolling cloud.

The explosions rocked the bomber as if it were caught in a typhoon.

Ormack checked the airspeed. "Seventy knots. If we hit the brakes at this speed, they'll explode. We can't stop in time anyway. Briggs Briggs had managed to get the Jeep cleared off the runway behind the fence. He ran over and hauled on the right side of the gate. The heavy wide fence slowly opened. Briggs sprinted through the sandstorm and pulled on the left gate. A securing pole was dragging in the sand, and Briggs had to throw his entire skinny body against the fence to move it.

"It's stuck," Ormack said.

"This is going to be a real short flight if he doesn't open that gate," McLanahan said.

But the fence wasn't moving. Briggs' legs were pumping, his once spit-shined boots scraping against the sand, but it wasn't helping.

half-open when Briggs slipped and slumped. The fence was to the sand, then rolled to his right to jump back to his feet. As he did he saw the Old Dog.

The aircraft looked like a gigantic pterodactyl coming toward him. And the pencil nose of the bomber, tilted down for takeoff, was aimed right at his heart.

Briggs jumped up, his eyes on the monster with wings speeding toward him, and body-tackled the fence. The fence jumped a few feet, but Briggs kept on going, his legs didn't stop pumping until the blast of the eight turbofan jet engines swept him off his feet and into the fence.

"He did it," McLanahan said.

"We aren't out of it yet. "Ormack slowly throttled up to full power, then reached down and hit the flap switch. "After the fence we got three miles of concrete left. It'll take another minute to get the flaps down, another minute to accelerate this pig to rotate speed. We run out of hard surface in less than a minute.

McLanahan finally found the flap indicator. "It's not moving… " "It probably jammed during one of those explosions," Ormack said, holding tight to the wheel."it might take them longer to come down-or the flap motors will burn out. One or the other.

The indicator moved to ten percent. Twenty percent. A pause-then a longer pause. Thirty percent. The bomber began to.rattle.

"Forty percent. "McLanahan scanned the instruments, then looked out the window. Through the dim morning light he saw the glitter of steel on the horizon. He stared harder. Perched directly in front of them was a large, boxy aircraft, with some men scattered around it.

"What the hell is that?" Ormack was staring into the distance.

"It's an airplane on the concrete," McLanahan said "They're blocking our path. "He glanced down at the flap' indicator again. Still forty percent.

"The flaps stopped."

"We can't do it. We need the whole dry lake now. "Ormack reached down and shut off the flap switch, freezing them at forty percent down.

"Can we rotate with the flaps stopped?"

"We'll run out of time before we hit that plane. We'll have to stop.

.. pull the 'chute-" "Wait. "McLanahan searched the control panel near his le it arm, finding a switch marked "DEFENSE CONSENT."He flipped the switch from SAFE to CONSENT "Angelina. "He arched around in his seat. "Angelina. Turn on the missiles. The forward missiles."

"What?"

"The Scorpions. Turn 'em on.

Pereira scrambled forward, clutching onto the pilot's seat.

"Turn them on?We can't. They need to align, lock onto a target-" "I don't need them to align. "McLanahan looked out the sloped windows.

Angelina followed his gaze, finally spotting the aircraft sitting on the runway. They could now see the attackers trying to level a bazooka at them. "Do it," McLanahan ordered.

Angelina hurried back to her station. To McLanahan, the wait was excruciating. He glanced backward a few times, but as the plane rushed forward he focused on the camouflaged attackers. There were four of them-two firing rifles from behind the plane, two others loading the bazooka. "Angelina "Ready," she called behind him.%, "Fire."

McLanahan threw his arms up in front of his face as he said it.

IT He never saw the results-but then, no human could see the advanced AMRAAM air-to-air missile as it fired off the left pylon at Mach two.

The missile leapt forward on a stream of fire. The primary solid-fuel engine had just barely reached full impulse burn when it plowed into the plane less than a half mile in front of the Old Dog.

What McLanahan did see was a blinding flash of light and massive black cloud of smoke and dust. A split second later.

the needlelike nose of the Old Dog plunged through the chaos Nothing happened-no crunch of metal, no explosion of the windscreen in front of him. A moment later the cockpit windows cleared, revealing a barrier infinitely larger than the plane they had just blown away-the seven thousand feet of granite called Groom Mountain.

" Go for it," McLanahan called out to Ormack.

Far behind the Megafortress, Hal Briggs had been pinned to the fence, his face mashed into the chain link by the force of the jet blast. He heard an explosion a few moments later, expecting the crash, the sound of exploding fuel, waiting for the fireball to engulf him. It didn't happen. It was an eternity until he could clear the stinging sand out of his face and eyes and look toward the horizon.

What he saw was the Old Dog lifting off through a cloud of y and black dust over the morning Nevada desert. A lurr of burning metal lay se gra runway, with smoking bodies flung hundreds of feet away several yards from the sand-covered The Old Dog hovered perhaps fifty feet above the desert floor, nearly obscured by the cloud of dust. He could barely see the huge wheels retract into the huge body rocket into the clear morning air.then the aircraft rose like "Jesus H. Christ," Briggs muttered, sitting in a three-foot drift of sand and tumbleweeds. "They did it. They did it.

Ormack flipped a switch on the overhead console beneath the cabin altitude indicator. Slowly the long, black needle moved upward and snapped into position. Half the windscreen was now obscured by the long SST nose, the windoi blending in with its sleek lines.

"Watch the instruments," Ormack said cross-cockpit. E spite the noise inside the bomber, he and McLanahan were s' talking loud enough to be heard without the interphone. "Ge coming up. I hope someone got all the ground locks.

reached across and moved the gear lever up. The red light the handle snapped on, "Instruments are okay," McLanahan said. He found the gear and icators on the front panel beside the gear level. One by one, the little wheel depictions on the indicators changed to crosshatch and then to the word UP, and the bumping and screeching of tires stowing in the wheel wells could be heard.

"Right tip gear up… forward mains up… aft mains up…

the left tip gear is still showing crosshatch."

Ormack cross-checked the indicator with the TIP GEAR NOT IN TRAIL caution light-it was showing unsafe too. "It might be hanging there, or it could be part-way up. We probably ripped out the whole left wingtip. "He did some experimental turns left and right. "Steering feels okay. The spoilers seem like they're still working. "He glanced down and double-checked that he had shut off the fuel valves from the left externals. "We can try emergency retraction later."

He ran a hand over his sweating face and scanned instru ents, left and right, as the Megafortress cleared the snowcovered Groom Mountain ridge line. "Looks like we lost all the eighteen thousand pounds in the left external A tankrobably lost the whole tank. The left external B is still with us p but it's feeding too fast, faster than the right externals. It's probably dumping all that fuel overboard. "He shut off the fuel transfer switch to the left external B tank. "That means we're short about forty thousand pounds."

He looked over at McLanahan, who was still staring at the mountain ridges sliding under the Old Dog's sleek black nose.

"Pat, check the hydraulics."

McLanahan scanned die quarter-sized hydraulic gauges on the left control panel. At first he was diverted by the fancy schematics added on to the panel showing the direction and metering of hydraulic power from the six engine-driven hydraulic pumps.

"Well?"

McLanahan then noticed it. "Pressure on the left outboard spoiler-tip gear is low."

Ormack shook his head. "Well, we're going to lose the left outboard system pretty soon. Make sure the standby pump switch is off."

"It's off."

"We're not going to try to emergency raise the tip gear," Ormack said.

"The entire wingtip is probably smashed. We'd deplete the hydraulic system for nothing. "He checked airspeed and altitude. "Okay. We're airborne. Flaps coming up.

McLanahan watched the gauge closely. A half-minute la they indicated full-up.

"Well, something's finally working okay," Ormack asked. "Good job," General Elliott said above the noise in the cockpit. Ormack and McLanahan turned in surprise. The general was standing between the two ejection seats, nodding approval. McLanahan looked at his leg. There was a large bandage and elastic cloth wrapped around the calf and thigh. "How's your leg, General?"

"Hurts like hell, Patrick. Feels like something took a bite out of it.

But Wendy and Angelina did a fine job. Lucky we got so many first aid kits on board."

"What the hell happened, General?Who were those guys that attacked us?"

"I'm not sure, Patrick. I was advised by intelligence of certain rumors, but I never thought… it looks like now there was a leak somewhere.

My hunch is that whoever authorized that attack expected those B-1s to be still in Dreamland.- Elliott cleared his throat. "I'll take it now Patrick.

"You sure you feel up to it, General?Your leg-" "I'll let John push on the rudder pedal if I need it, Otherwise I can handle this beast.

Get everyone else on belt and oxygen and stand by for a climb check."

So saying, Elliott moved himself aside and let McLanahan climb out of the left side seat and pass around him to go downstairs. Then with help from Ormack, he settled himself into the pilot's ejection seat fastened the parachute harness.

"All right," he said, readjusting the headset and placing his hands around the yoke. "I've got the aircraft."

"Roger, you have the aircraft," Ormack acknowledg assuring positive transfer of control with a slight shake of the control column.

"Let's clean up the after takeoff checklist. Landing gear?""Gear up, indicating five up," Ormack replied. "Left gear is reading crosshatch.

Left outboard hydraulic system low and will probably fail soon."

"Confirmed. "Elliott rechecked the hydraulic gauges.

be okay for the time being. Flaps.

"Lever up and off, flaps up."

"Throttles.

"Set for MRT climb. Nav, you up?"

"Nav's up," Luger replied immediately.

"Outside air temp zero, anti-ice off."

"MRT EPR two point one seven."

"Throttles set," Ormack said, checking the gauges.

"Start switches."

"Off and FLIGHT" "Air conditioning master switch."

"Seven point four-five PSI, radar and defense, normal cooling air available," Ormack said as conditioned air rushed from the cabin vents.

"Offense copies," Luger replied as McLanahan buckled his parachute harness and rechecked his equipment.

"Defense copies," Pereira said mechanically, watching as Wendy Tork secured herself into her seat. Angelina scanned her instrument panels, then opened her checklist and began to bring up her array of armament equipment.

"Slipway doors, open then closed. "Ormack reached up and flipped the SLIPWAY DOOR switch to OPEN on the overhead panel — The green CLOSED AND LOCKED light went on. He flipped the switch to NORMAL CLOSED and the indicator came on again.

"Open then closed, check closed."

"This beast climbs like an angel," Elliott asked. "We're past twelve thousand already. Crew, oxygen check. "He glanced around his seat.

His helmet was nowhere in sight.

"Go ahead and check them in, John," he asked. "I'll check mine when I get leveled off. "Ormack looked slightly embarrassed. He pulled the boom mike closer and said, "Defense?"

"Uh… defense is not complete."

"Neither is offense.

Elliott looked in surprise at his co-pilot. "We don't 9" "Nobody," Ormack said.

"Nobody has an oxygen mask?No helmet?" Elliott said over the interphone.

"We didn't exactly have time to pack a lunch, General, McLanahan said.

"Goddamn it," Elliott said. He checked the cabin altimeter on the eyebrow panel; it held steady at seven thousand feet.

"Cabin altitude is steady at seven thousand. How about any masks at all?Emergency masks?Anything?"

Ormack checked behind his seat. "The firefighter's mask is in place," he said, pulling the bag around and examining the mask. It was a full-face mask with a bayonet clip for the ship's oxygen system, designed for a crew member to plug into a portable oxygen "walk around" bottle and battle a cabin fire.

"One oxygen mask," Elliott asked. "No helmets.""We'll just have to stay below ten thousand feet," Ormack asked. "We can't risk a higher altitude. A subtle loss of cabin altitude, the entire crew gets hypoxic-we'd be dead before we knew it.

"We can't do that," Elliott asked. "This aircraft is top secret.

We've got to get to a higher altitude and isolate ourselves until my staff or someone comes up with a suitable landing base.

Under ten thousand feet, too many air and ground eyes can watch us." "Then I'll just keep this thing on until we land, sir," Ormack said.

"A few hours at best. I can handle it."

"No," Elliott asked. "The mask restricts your vision too much, and there's no communications hookup. Okay, ladies and gents, listen up.

Until we get back on the ground, we're all in jeopardy. No one has any oxygen, at least not a safe supply.

You can stick your oxygen hose in your face and go to "EMER' to get a shot of oxygen-as a matter of fact, we'll do that-but it's a real danger. We'll do station and compartment checks every fifteen minutes.

Check around more often. Keep alert for signs of hypoxia. The co-pilot and I will take turns with the fire mask. Check around your stations to see what else we're missing."

"Does it matter, General?"

Wendy asked. "We're going to land soon, aren't we?"

"When it gets dark, and when we find a base that can take us.

Obviously, Dreamland is out. Tonopah or Indian Springs might be alternates. Angelina, Wendy, get in contact with mission control and-" "Problem, General," Angelina interrupted. "No secrets."

"No communications documents?No encoding tables?

I.F.F?"

"I'm afraid not."

"What do we have on board?"

"The whole world will know about us in no time, General," Ormack said.

"The attack on Dreamland, this plane, the whole thing. They can't keep all this secret. When this plane lands, the whole world will be on hand to see it.

Elliott pushed on the yoke to level off at seventeen thousand feet, staring straight ahead over the long, sleek nose of the Megafortress.

"I suppose you're right," he asked. "Level-off checks, John. Angelina, get a U.H.F phone patch through Nellis to Cobalt Control. That's my section in Washington. Advise them that we're okay and request a secure radio setup and frequency as soon as possible.

"Roger.

Just then a loud voice over all the U.H.F radios on board interrupted them. "This is Los Angeles Center on guard.

Aircraft heading two-eight-five, altitude seventeen thousand feet, squawk five-two-one-nine and ident if you can hear me.

"That's us," Ormack said. Elliott reached down to his side panel, set the I.F.F frequency, turned the transmitter to ON, and hit the IDENT button.

"Aircraft is radar contact," the air traffic controller replied.

"Change to frequency two-nine-seven point eight."

Elliott changed the frequency. "Los Angeles Center, this is Genesis on two-nine-seven point eight.

"Genesis, ident and spell full call sign," Los Angeles came back.

Elliott spelled the name.

"Genesis?" Ormack asked. "What's that?"

"It's an old classified collective call sign for military experimental aircraft from Edwards," Elliott told him. "We used it when we wanted to go to the high-altitude structure but didn't want anyone, even the military airspace controllers, to know who we were. Drearniand has launched a lot of aircraft without flight plans all over this area. I hope the guy asks someone else about it instead of me."

"Genesis " the confusion in the controller's voice was apparent.".

Genesis, we show no flight plan for you. Say your departure point.

"Unable, Los Angeles."

There was a longer pause. Then: "Genesis, your primary target is very weak. Say type of aircraft, intentions and destination.

"This guy is trying to gut it out even if he doesn't know what he's doing," Elliott said to Ormack. He switched to the radio.

"Los Angeles, Genesis is requesting direct Friant, direct Talon intersection and holding at Talon within fifty nautical flight level three-niner zero."

"Unable your request through valley traffic witho plan, Genesis "Request you contact our command post on AUTOVON or Department of Defense DTS nine-ei, one-four-two-four, for our flight plan if it isn't in you in the next two minutes. Meanwhile, request direc direct Talon at the three-niner zero."

"Genesis the controller, not accustomed telling him what to do, was clearly agitated. "Unable standard holding north of the Coaldale two-five-three radial between twenty and thirty DME, right hand one-seven thousand five hundred until we straighten & "Genesis is proceeding VFR at this time, Los A Elliott said.

"Maintaining sixteen thousand five hundred proceeding direct Tacon.

We'll file a VFR flight plan with Coaldale Flight Service.

"Genesis, you have your instructions," the controller shot back.

"Enter holding as directed."

"Passing over the Coaldale VORTAC, General," said.

"Nuts to that," Elliott said, and switched the mode 7600, the radio-out I.F.F advisory. "Climbing to two zero, crew," he said over interphone.

"John, dial up "He's gonna be pissed," Ormack said as he changed the TACAN frequency to steer themselves to the next n point.

"If he never gets our flight plan, he'll never know are unless he scrambles interceptors against us," Ell' "If he get our flight plan, it won't matter. If he sc fighters… well, we don't have a tail number.

even look much like a real B-52."

"Genesis, this is Los Angeles Center-the voice was ragged-you are violated at this time. Turn to heading-" Elliott switched off the radio.

"I'll keep the emergency radio-out squawks going until we're out over water, asked. "He may be pissed but he'll clear the airspace "Not the best way to begin," Luger said to McLa the downstairs compartment.

McLanahan gave a shrug. He opened his chec, began to activate the radar, satellite navigation system, and the ring-laser gyro. A few minutes later the radar was warmed up and ready for use.

Luger meanwhile was plotting a fix on a high-altitude airways chart he found in a flight publications bag behind his seat.

"Any jet charts in there?GNC charts?Anything?" McLanahan asked.

"No, standard FLIP bag," Luger told him.

"Great. Just great. Well, we do have a flight plan. There should be Red Flag bomb range training data in here.

McLanahan checked that the correct mission cartridge was inserted into the reader, then flipped the READ lever. Twenty seconds later the flight plan, target coordinates, fixpoints, weapon coefficients, and terrain elevations for the entire southwest United States were resident in the master computer.

He then checked the gyro, nav computer, and satellite global positioning systems.

"The ring-laser gyro and satellite systems are ready to go," McLanahan said. He turned the satellite navigator to SYNCHRONIZE."We need a present position fix to align the gyro and start the nav computer.

After that it'll take a minute to start navigating on its own.

As Luger took radar fixes and began a rough D.R log on the margins of the enroute charts, McLanahan waited for the satellite to lock on.

After two minutes the SYNC ERROR advisory light was still lit.

"Okay," Luger said, putting his plotter down. "We're on a pretty good heading to Talon intersection. How's it going over there?"

"Bad to worse," McLanahan asked. "I just realized why. The satellite GPS needs a synchronizer code."

"And naturally we don't have one."

"Naturally," McLanahan said. He punched the Scorpion missile radar on to TRANSMIT and switched it to its original navigation radar mode. He looked into the scope, watching the Pacific coastline come into view in one hundred mile range, A then in frustration switched it back to STANDBY "It's hard to take a radar fix without a radar chart or description of the fixpoints," he asked. "The ring-laser gyro will probably align with an overfly fix or a D.R position, but I don't know how accurate the heading will be.

"Bottom line-Luger to the rescue!" Dave asked. "You were a psychic, partner. You needed a nav right from the beginning.

McLanahan flipped his interphone switch. "Want an update on the situation down here, General?"

"I'm afraid to guess. Well, if we don't have a satellite communications channel or I.F.F mission squawk, we certainly don't have a GPS code. No GPS, no reliable gyro. What else?"

"How about no charts and no target and fixpoint descriptions?"

The interphone clicked dead for a moment. Then: "Well, do the best you can.

"You bet," McLanahan asked. "We're deaf, dumb, blind, and lost, but we'll do the best we can."