Flight Of The Old Dog

ABOARD THE OLD DOG

Dave Luger checked the master computer's clock on his TV display.

Weird, he thought. Watching a machine doing his navigation for him.

Playing a big "video game" in the belly of a B-52 somewhere over the north Pacific.

Well, not exactly "somewhere. "With the GPS up and running, he knew within sixty feet where they were at any given moment-and the GPS measured those moments within one-hundredth of a second.

Luger plugged his nose and blew against the pressures I'valsalva," designed to clear his ears after their hair-raising dive to "disappear" from Seattle Center radar. "General?"

"Go ahead, Dave," Elliott said.

"Fifteen minutes to the decision point. "Luger quickly called up a fuel reading on his video display. "I've got us right on your updated fuel curve, Colonel."

"Checks up here," Ormack acknowledged.

"So we're not leaking fuel?" Wendy asked.

"Negative," Ormack asked. "At least there's some good news.

"Well, it's time we talked about the bad news," Elliott said.

"This is what we're looking at. According to Patrick and Dave, and courtesy of those twelve navigation satellites feeding our computers information, we're fifteen minutes from a major decision point.

"We now have about thirty-four thousand pounds of fuel left. Thanks to that phony screaming-ass descent back there that had all those air traffic controllers buffaloed, and the hour long cruise at five hundred feet above the water, we'll soon be running on fumes. From our decision point ahead we can divert to Elmendorf Air Force Base in Anchorage and have about fifteen thousand pounds of fuel. That's the absolute minimum amount of landing fuel for a normal B-52.With this plastic monster of ours we can overfly Elmendorf and with favorable winds and a lot of luck divert again to Eielson Air Force Base in Fairbanks with about three thousand pounds remaining. That figure is significant because that's the normal tolerance of the fuel gauges we have-we can have six thousand at Eielson-" "Or we can have zero," Angelina said.

"Exactly But that plan does give us two available airfields to set this beast down on."

"Is there another option?" McLanahan asked.

"Yes, Patrick. We can continue on our planned flig route.

The only available airfield with a halfway decent runway for us becomes Shemya in the Aleutians. Fuel reserve over Shemya would be about five thousand pounds."

"Five thousand pounds?" Wendy asked. "That's cutting it close. Are there any-T' "There are other airfields nearby," Elliott said, anticipating her question. "All of them are shorter and narrower than Shemya, but we should be able to put down on any one of them. I bring up this option because Shemya has two things that we could use-a fairly isolated runway and fuel. We need the isolation if we ever hope to keep this plane and this mission secret. The decision becomes this-head toward Elmendorf with one good option but an end to our mission, or head toward Shemya with only a few poor options but an outside chance of continuing on."

"I don't see there's an option, General," Ormack said.

"We've come this far…"

Elliott nodded at Ormack, silently thanking him. To the crew he said, "I guess I'm bringing all this up to give each of you another out, another chance to put this bird down."

"We've given you our answer, General," Wendy said.

"I know, and I thank you. But you've had a few hours to think about it. I'm putting the question again."

"I've got a different question," McLanahan asked. "How's your leg, General?We can't complete this mission with less than a one hundred percent effort from everybody-you said so yourself. Are you one hundred percent, General?"

"Of course I am. "Elliott turned and found Orinack looking at him carefully.

"I can handle it, John."

"He has a point, General. You're worried about us not having the commitment-but do you have the capacity?"

Elliott paused, then spoke into the interphone. "I won't deny it, crew. My leg hurts like a sonofabitch. But if I didn't think I could get this beast to Kavaznya and back again, well, I would have said so back there when we were over Seattle.

Silence. Then McLanahan spoke. "All right, General.

That's good enough for me."

"Me, too," Angelina said.

"And me," Luger added.

The entire crew voiced their assent.

"All right, then," Elliott said, "do any of you have any brilliant ideas about how we can get enough gas to finish this mission?"

Downstairs in the lower offensive crew compartment McLanahan gave his partner Luger the thumbs-up sign and spoke into the interphone.

"I have an idea, General," McLanahan asked. "But it may involve breaking some rules."

"If there was ever a time to break rules, Patrick, this is it.

Let's hear it."

"Well, we'll have to call you General Jean Lafitte after this one," McLanahan said, "but here's what I had in mind Elliott flipped his radio over to HF TRANSMIT, took a deep breath: "Skybird, Skybird, this is Genesis on Quebec. Emergency. Over. "The command post senior controller on duty in the tiny SAC Command post on the tiny island of Shemya, perched nearly at the tip of the Aleutians, had to restrain himself from spilling his coffee as the emergency call blared through his speaker.

Calls over HE especially emergency calls, were few and far between up here at the extreme northwestern tip of the United States of America.

He whipped out a grease pencil and noted the time on the slate of glass covering his desktop.

He switched his radio to HF and keyed his microphone.

"Calling Skybird on HF, this is Icepack on Quebec. Spell your call sign phonetically and go ahead with information.

"We got him," Elliott said over interphone. Over the high frequency radio, he said, "Copy you, Icepack. I spell Golf.

Echo, November, Echo, Sierra, India, Sierra, SAC Special Operations.

We are one-eight-zero miles east-southeast of' your station. We have declared an emergency for a double engine fire and fire in the crew compartment. Massive fuel leaks. Request emergency random refueling with strip alerter and emergency recovery at Shemya."

The deputy controller was furiously writing the information down on a logbook. He opened the classified call signs book.

"Checks," the controller said to his partner. "Special ops out of Edwards."

"So what's he doing way the hell up here?" the senior controller said.

"Call the commander. "He checked the weather forecast printout on his console, then turned back to his radio.

"Understand your request, Genesis," the controller replied.

"Shemya is reporting marginal conditions. Can you divert to Anchorage?

Repeat, can you divert to Anchorage?"

"Negative, negative," Elliott replied. "Less than one-five minutes of fuel at present rate of loss. No navigation equipment. Magnetic instruments only. We are only estimating our present position.

"Understand, Genesis," the senior controller said and looked over to his NCO partner.

"Got the boss on the line, sir," the NCO said. The senior controller grabbed the phone.

"Colonel Sands here."

"Major Falls in the Command Post, sir. Inbound inflight emergency requesting a strip alert tanker.

"How far out is he?" Sands asked.

"He estimates about one hundred and seventy miles now.

sir. He said less than fifteen minutes of fuel."

"Hell, we might not make it even if we launched right now.

Who is it?"

"They're using a strange call sign, sir," Falls said "Genesis. It's a special ops call sign out of Edwards."

Sands swore under his breath. Special Operations. An experimental or highly classified mission. But from Edwards'."

"How's the runway now?"

Slick as owl shit, sir. RCR still about ten. Fifty feet either side of centerline is free of ice to about twelve RCR.Taxiways are about eight RCR.

"Status of the strip alert bird?"

"In the green, sir," Falls said, glancing over at his assistant.

The NCO cupped his hand over the telephone he was using.

"The crew's being recalled to the pad, sir," the NCO reported.

"Have them report directly to their plane," Falls said. He turned to his telephone. "Crews are responding to their planes, sir.

"Get an authentication from this Genesis," Sands said.

"I'm on my way."

"Command post clear. "Falls opened the communications code book, checked that the date and time were good and turned to his radio.

"Genesis, this is Icepack control. Authenticate Alpha Echo.

Elliott turned to Ormack. "They want me to authenticate."

"We don't have any code documents."

"Unable to authenticate, Icepack," Elliott replied quickly.

Falls winced. What the hell was going on?

"Genesis, we cannot provide strip alert support without authentication.

"Icepack, this is the senior controller aboard Genesis," Elliott said over the high-frequency radio. "The communications compartment has been severely damaged. Half the crew is dead or injured. We have no means to authenticate."

A few moments later Colonel Sands was wriggling his chubby desk-bound body out of his parka. "Status?"

"He said he was unable to authenticate, sir," Falls said.

"Fire inside their crew compartment and communications center, injuries. The senior controller seems to be the one in command." "Senior controller?Communications center?Sounds like an AWACS or EC-135-but it's an Edwards call sign?" Sands picked up the microphone.

"Genesis, this is Icepack. Over. "He bent toward the speaker.

"Go ahead, Icepack. Urgently need strip alert support."

Sands searched his memory. "I recognize that voice.

Where?" He keyed the microphone. "Genesis, say type of aircraft and souls on board.

"Unable, Icepack."

"Son of a bitch," Sands said half-aloud. "What's going on?

Damn… thatvoice. "Hethoughtquickly "Gethold of Anchorage Center, find out where this guy came from.

"Already did that, Colonel," the NCO told him. "Nothing.

No squawk. Not even radar contact. He's been outside the ADIZ until now."

"Then screw him," Sands asked. "This sounds too fishy. We due for an air defense test or something?" Falls shook his head. Sands grimaced and keyed the microphone. "Genesis.

strip alert support is not authorized without proper authentication.

Unless you identify yourself, you'll have to swim back. Elliott looked preoccupied as Ormack said, "What do we do now, we've only got-" "Sands!" Elliott suddenly blurted out. "Eddie Sands!That sorry son of a bitch. They stuck his ass in Shemya. "Elliott keyed his microphone.

"We are unable to authenticate… scum-maggot.

Sands paled as if he had seen a ghost. Slowly he brought the microphone to his lips.

Falls glared at his wing commander as if he had been slapped in the face. Sands angrily jammed the mike button down. "Say again, Genesis."

"You heard me, slime-worm," Elliott shot back. "Unable to authenticate.

To Falls' immense surprise, a hint of a smile began to creep across Sands' face.

"Genesis," Sands said carefully, the smile still working its way across the pudgy face of the Shemya wing commander.

"Once more. Is this for real?"

"Affirmative… dirt bag. "Aboard the Megafortress, Ormack looked befuddled.

"What… T' "He'll have the tanker airborne in five minutes," Elliott told Ormack, relaxing in his ejection seat. "Crew, prepare for refueling. "Sands dropped the microphone into Falls' lap.

"Has the strip alert crew called in?"

"No, sir, I expect them any-" p his "Call the vice commander," Sands said, zipping u parka. "Tell him he's got the store. Put me on the strip alert flight orders. Notify Reynolds that I'm coming aboard for his emergency refueling."

Faster than any of his men had ever seen the pudgy commander move, Sands was out the door. Falls' partner looked baffled as the full-bird colonel sped down the hallway and into the subzero cold outside.

"What the hell?"

"Don't ask me, Bill," Falls said.

"What about the old standard operating procedures?"

Falls thought a moment. "We follow them, even if the colonel doesn't.

Notify the interceptor squadron on alert. Tell them the KC-10 is taking off in support of emergency refueling, but that the aircraft they'll be rendezvousing with is unidentified. The unidentified aircraft is not considered hostile but it has refused or is somehow unable to establish contact with any civilian or military agency.

"Got it. "The NCO picked up the phone and dialed as rapidly as he could.

McLanahan was announcing: "Eleven o'clock, seventy miles. "Over the newly assigned U.H.F command post frequency they were using as the air refueling frequency, he said, "Icepack one-oh-one, Genesis has radar contact at seventy miles at your two o'clock position."

The pilot of Icepack 101, the KC-10 tanker from Shemya, looked to Colonel Sands, who was sitting in the I.P jumpseat between himself and his KC-10's co-pilot.

"A new voice," the pilot, Joe Reynolds remarked. "Sounds like a nav if I ever heard one. I thought there was only one survivor on board?"

"Radar contact at seventy miles?" Sands echoed. "Maybe not as helpless as they said they were.":"Do we keep on going?" Reynolds asked.

"We keep on going," Sands told him. "I recognize a voice on board.

Precontact check complete," Ormack said aboard the Old Dog. "All external lights are off right now."

"Good," Elliott said.

Just then Wendy Tork reported, "I've got search radar contact at eleven o'clock."

"That's the tanker," McLanahan said. Wendy checked the c Oscillos ope-like frequency pattern on the frequency video display.

"Confirmed," she said.

McLanahan flipped on a switch marked BEACON on his manual tuning radar control panel, checking that the radar frequency remained on the preset "doghouse" beacon frequenCy range. The tiny dot representing the tanker on his radar changed into a line of six tiny rectangles in a one-two-three dot pattern. "I've got his beacon. "He switched to interplane.

"One-oh-one, contact your beacon. Beacon to standby."

The six-dot pattern disappeared. "Go back to operate. II The pattern reappeared.

"Positive ID, our eleven o'clock, sixty-five miles."

"Check on air-to-air TACAN, " the pilot aboard Icepack IO 1 acknowledged. The mileage on the air-to-air TACAN receiver.

the two aircraft, slowh which gave the distance between filed 11 clicked down.

"What do you hope to find, sir?" Reynolds asked the wing commander alongside him.

"I don't know," Sands told him, "but I wouldn't want to miss whatever it is."

"But who are these guys?They don't sound like they're in trouble to me-" sound like they're in trouble, Sands shook his head. "They but not like they've told us. We had to launch-but we don I have to rendezvous with them."

"Then what-" "I'm up here to investigate, Joe. Gather information.

But I'd be breaking a dozen rules if I allowed this aircraft to join with an unidentified aircraft. If we'd refused to launch they'c have disappeared forever. No, we'll head toward them. But instead of turning we're going to buzz right past this joker."

"And then?""And then we'll let them escort them back to the Shemya.

"The interceptors?Are they up there"" "If I know Falls it's the first thing he did after we took off," Sands said.ey said fifteen minutes."

"But what about their gas?""It's been fifteen minutes right about now," Sands said checking his watch. "Do those guys sound like they're abou to fall into the ocean?Someone's screwing with us, Joe Nobody does that with me. We'll lead these guys back to the base, then find out what the hell's going on."

"Inside sixty miles," McLanahan reported, switching his radar back into search-while-track mode.

"Copy," Elliott asked. "Ready, Wendy?Angelina?"

"Ready," Angelina said.

"All set, General," Wendy told him, "but I don't see the other ones yet."

"Believe me, they're coming," Elliott asked. "Hit 'em wit just a little at first. When he switches over, blot 'em out."

"Will do.

"Sixty miles," McLanahan called out to the tanker. Part of his transmission was interrupted by a high-pitched squeal.

Sands winced and fumbled for his volume control knob "Genesis, you have a loud squeal on your radio," Ashlethe KC-10s co-pilot, called out.

"Copy," McLanahan replied. His transmission was almo completely blotted out by noise. "Switching radios. "McLanahan waited a few moments, then said, "How do you copy no% Icepack?"

The noise was almost unbearable. "Genesis, this is Icepack Your radios seem to be malfunctioning. Do you have FM or VHF capability?"

"Roger," Elliott asked. "Switching to VHF now."interphone he said, "Okay, Wendy. Shut 'em out."

Wendy smiled and flicked a transmitter switch to MAX carefully checking the frequency video display.

"This is Icepack on VHF air refueling freq," Ashley saic "How copy?"

"Too high, General," Wendy said, studying the new VH frequency range on her video display. "Lower. To at least one twenty megahertz." "Icepack, take it over to one-One-two point one-five, Elliott said.

Sands, aboard the KC-10, looked curiously at Ashley who,i along with Reynolds shared his confusion. Ashley switched frequencies.

"How do you copy, Genesis?"

"Loud and clear, Icepack, " Elliott said. Over interphone k.

said, "Okay, I got him, Wendy. Take 'em all down."

"Will do, General."

"Range, Patrick?"

"Fifty-five miles, General," McLanahan told him. "And I've got additional radar contact at twelve o'clock, eighty miles, fast-moving.

You were right."

"He's only following SOP, — Ormack said.

"He's still a snake," Elliott asked. "He was a snake at the Academy, and he's still one. Patrick, I've got it.

"Go get 'em, General."

"Icepack, this is Genesis," Elliott said over the new VHF frequency.

"Go ahead, Genesis."

"The name is Elliott, Eddie," the general began, staring into the twilight. "We're at fifty-five miles at your one o'clock.

You launched without proper authentication, leaving me to believe that you have no intention of rendezvousing with us.

You're going to turn the opposite direction, or fly past us.

Either way, it'd be a mistake."

"Why, General Elliott," Sands said, grinning. "I figured it was you.

What's a big SAC cheese like you doing in a hell-hole like this?"

"You're going to make this rendezvous, Colonel-" Or else, were you going to say') We're getting feisty in our old age, aren't we?Well, I've got news for you, sir-we're heading back to Shemya, and we're going to- "Just watch your one o'clock, Icepack."

Now listen, Elliott-"

As Sands was posturing aboard the KC-10 tanker, Wendy ejected four bundles of chaff from the wings of the Megafortress. Angelina locked her airmine radar onto the cloud of metallic tinsel behind them, and when they moved about a mile behind the bomber fired a single airmine rocket at the cloud.

From the cockpit of the KC-10 Extender tanker it resembled a giant flower-like fireworks display, even at their range. The airmine rocket plowed into the cloud of chaff and exploded mixing thousands of chips of metal into the explosion and fire caused by the exploding rocket.

The detonation ignited the chaff and the shrapnel from the rocket, creating a fiery cloud that spread rapidly across the evening sky.

" Turn range is twenty-two, Eddie," Elliott said over interplane.

"Left turn. Or we'll make another little fireworks display on your tail."

"Switch radio two back to command post," Sands said sharply. "The fighters'll be on three-eleven. Have them get their asses up here." He stared at the slowly dissipating cloud of fire ahead and clenched his fists. "Screw you," he muttered, "I'm running this show, General."

As Ashley switched frequencies from VHF and U.H.F range and keyed the microphone, an ear-splitting squeal drowned out his call.

"He's trying to transmit on three-eleven," Wendy said, studying her emitter video display "We're jamming U.H.F and VHF too," Elliott said to the KC-10."So forget about calling those fighters. We're jamming I.F.F and we'll squeal out HF, too."

"Thirty-five miles, General," McLanahan said.

"One more convincer, Eddie," Elliott told him. "I understand you folks have threat-warning receivers now. Well, check it out. "On the interphone he called down. "Lock onto him Patrick. "McLanahan hit his TRACK switch, pressed the ENABLE lever on his tracking handle, and guided a circle cursor over the radar skin-paint of the KC-10 tanker.

When he released the ENABLE lever the circle remained on the return and a green numeral "one" lighted on McLanahan's TV screen.

"Got him," McLanahan announced. On board the KC-10 the results were a bit more dramatic. On the threat-warning receiver on the instrument panel between the pilots, Elliott's plane had been showing as an "S," for search radar. The "friendly" symbol on the threat radar video display suddenly changed into a hostile "bat-wing" threat symbol.

Moments later a red MISSILE ALERT illuminated as the threat receiver's internal computer interpreted the steady "lock-on" signal from the unknown aircraft as a missile tracking signalindicating a missile ready to launch.

"We gotta get out of here," from Ashley.

"Easy, co-pilot, easy," from Reynolds.

"How do we know who he is?"

The S.O.B. is bluffing," Reynolds asked. "He's a goddamned friendly.

He won't shoot. Set the I.F.F to EMER.Get on GUARD and call those fighters."

Sands waited a few moments while Reynolds directed his crew. The anticipated results came a few seconds later.

"I.F.F's faulted," Ashley asked. "No interrogate indication."

"Heavy jamming on all emergency frequencies," the flight engineer reported.

"Okay, okay," Sands asked. "Tie the autopilot back into the rendezvous computer. Make the turn.

"But we can't-" "Yes, we can. Someone's either playing a very big joke… or is very serious. It doesn't matter-we're committed," he said, and flipped over to the interplane channel.

"Okay, Genesis, you convinced us," Sands asked. "Or should I say, General Elliott?Don't worry, we'll make the turn.

Are we going to have to listen to that missile alert bull all through the refueling?"

Elliott smiled. "Take it down, Patrick. "McLanahan deselected the TRACK switch and punched in "one" on his keyboard, and his circle cursor went to the "home" position in the upper left corner of the radar scope.

"Icepack turning left heading two-seven-one," Ashley said nervously on the radio.

On board the Old Dog, McLanahan watched the radar return carefully for a few moments, then said, "He looks fine, General, normal turn rate, correct direction. He should roll out two miles ahead of us.

"Good. Get back on long range and get a fix on those fighters. I've got a visual on his lights."

McLanahan switched from thirty to eighty miles range and immediately a large bright return appeared, just passing the thirty-five-mile range mark.

"Thirty-five miles, General. Closing fast."

"Genesis has visual contact," Ormack said. He pointed out the cockpit windows into the growing blackness.

"So, General," Sands said, "last I heard you were in the Looking Glass unit in Omaha. You're a long way from Nebraska, sir. "He paused, then: "I thought the missile alert stuff was sort of childish, General.

You wouldn't fire a missile at one of our own. Now let's cut the crap-" "Not now, Eddie," Elliott broke in. "Now, I know you have a code-word that sends those F-15s home. We'll release your fighter frequency so you can tell them they're not needed."left. "Then you also know, General, that I got a word that'll have those trigger-happy jocks blow you into atoms."

Elliott looked at Ormack. "He's right."

"Game's over. If I say nothing-or if you keep jamming and I'm not allowed to say anything-those boys come in hellbent for blood and with itchy trigger fingers on real Sidewinders. It may be too late already, sir, what with their interplane frequency being jammed like that. If this is some sort of exercise.it's gone way too far-but I'm not yelling uncle. You are. Right now. What'll it be?"

"I'll tell you what, Eddie- "Go ahead, General, I've got plenty of gas-and firepower."

"I've got more than a code-word, Eddie, I've got a story. A story about a certain wing commander at a conference in Omaha. About a certain air division commander's wife. A story about a blond kid in an Italian family "Stop crappin' around, Elliott-" "My mission is no crap, Sands. I may not be doing it by the book but I'm Special Ops. We both get to tell our stories to headquarters when we land. "Elliott quickly switched to interphone. "Patrick. Range to the interceptors?"

"Twenty-five miles."

"Well I've got a story about a certain hot-shot one-button in the Philipines that should prove entertaining," Sands hit back.

"I had dinner with the Secretary two weeks ago, Eddie.

While you were chipping ice cubes out of your undies I told him that story. He bought me a martini afterwards. Look, we're running out of time, I don't want those fighters any closer. "On interphone he said, "Frequency clear?"

"Yes, sir," from Wendy. "The interceptors are contacting their command post for engagement authorization" "You're on, Eddie," Elliott said.

"Cutlass flight, this is Alpha aboard Icepack one-oh-one on channel nine.

"Copy you loud and clear now, Icepack," the lead pilot of the F-15

Eagle two-ship formation replied. "We have visual contact on you but not on your receiver. Heavy Milling on all frequencies. Permission to join on your receiver's wing for positive ID."

"Negative," Sands told him wearily. "Positive ID already established.

Status is Red Aurora. Red Aurora. Alpha out."

"Patrick?"

Fighters are turning," McLanahan reported. "Heading back toward the coast."

"Shut down U.H.F again, Wendy," Elliott said. His order was instantly confirmed by a loud crackle of static on the radio he was monitoring.

"That won't be necessary, Genesis," Sands said over the VHF refueling frequency. "We'll play ball, damn you. But the fighters and my command post will just get nervous if they can't talk to us."

"I'm counting on you, Eddie."

:"Open a window and we'll shake on it, Genera "Wendy, open up three-eleven again," Elliott asked. "Leave everything else shut down."

Sands unplugged his interphone and oxygen connections and cleared off to the air refueling pod in the back of the converted DC-10 airliner.

He strapped himself into the long wide boom operator's bench and stared out the window beneath their feet.

"What's his ranges" Sands asked the boom operator.

"Almost two miles. Still can't see him. And it's not even completely dark yet."

"Genesis, this is Icepack. You guys are either very small, very dark, or both. Turn your lights back on or we'll be up here a long time trying to plug you."

"Who's in the pod, Eddie?" Elliott asked.

"Just me and the boomer."

"No other spectators, Eddie. Deal?"

"I got a feeling I don't want to see this," Sands muttered over VHE ' Okay, agreed. Let's see what's such a big goddamned deal — " "Lights are coming on."

The formation lights revealed the size of the unknown receiver, but nothing else. It appeared like a group of stars flying the formation behind the KC-10 tanker.

"We're also going to need fuselage lights, Genesis," the boomer said.

"I've got your receptacle light okay but no azimuth or elevation references."

"Give 'em the fuselage lights, John," Elliott said. He was busy adjusting his seat down and forward for the best position for refueling.

Roger," from Ormack. Just then the Old Dog began to slide to the right. Ormack pressed on the left rudder pedal and looked anxiously at Elliott.

"General?You okay?"

"Sure, I've got it."

"We're yawing to thexight. Straighten her out. Let up on the ly straightened out.

right rudder. "The Old Dog slow" "You've got the refueling, John, Elliott said, relaxing his grip on the yoke. His head rested on the headrest on the back of the ejection seat, his chest heaved.

"But-" "I was testing out the rudders," Elliott told Ormack. "I pushed the right pedal but didn't feel anything happen so I sscd harder. I still can't feel anything… I think I've lost pre my right leg."

"Goddamn," Ormack said, grabbing the yoke and putting his feet on the rudder pedals. "I've got the aircraft."

"You've got the aircraft," Elliott responded, shaking the yoke. Ormack gave it a shake to confirm he had control. Elliott slid a hand down his right leg and over the calf. A few hours earlier such an exploration would have caused almost excruciating pain. Now, nothing.

He could feel his finger pressing on the muscle beneath his knee, but he felt nothing. It was an eerie feeling, like touching a hunk of salami…

Ormack looked anxiously at the huge KC-10 looming before them, its boom extended, waiting.

"General," Orinack said firmly, "I'm aborting this mission-" "No." "McLanahan had a point, sir. It's not worth your le 9 "Refuel this aircraft, Colonel," Elliott said finrily. "We're not stopping now."

"But, General, I-" "I said refuel this bomber. Two men have already sacrificed their lives for this mission. "He grabbed the yoke, gave it an angry shake and put a gloved hand back on the throttle cluster between them. "And if I have to refuel this plane without your help I will. Understand?"

Ormack slowly nodded. "All right, General, all right…

I've got the airplane… but I need a pilot, General. A onehundred percent combat ready pilot. Do I have one?"

"Well, my right calf is about twenty-five percent, John. But your pilot who also happens to be commander of the Old Dog is one hundred percent. Refuel this plane."

Ormack nodded in surrender, looked at the air-to-air TACAN distance readout. "Icepack, Genesis is approaching one-half mile. "The boom operator gripped his fly-by-wire digital boom controls and stared into the darkness below. The wingtip position lights of the mysterious receiver were just barely visible, as were some fuselage and upper-position lights. The slipway-door light danced eerily in the gloom before him, and he had to close his eyes to avoid getting the "leans," a loss of equilibrium caused by the moving light without any horizon references. There were lights out there, but even at a half-mile he couldn't see any airplane body to go with them.

"Genesis," the boom operator said, "be advised I have your lights but have insufficient vertical, horizontal, and depth references for a safe call to precontact position."

"We have a good tally on you," Ormack told him. "Clear us to precontact and we'll give you range countdown to contact. If you can't see us that way He looked to Elliott.

"Clear us to precontact," Elliott said, filling in for Ormack.

"Stick the boom out there, booms. We'll put this plane underneath it and you plug us."

"Roger, Genesis," the boomer said uneasily. "You are cleared to precontact position, with caution."

"Roger. Moving in."

Sands and the boom operator stared anxiously as the slipway door light moved toward them.

"One hundred feet," Ormack reported as his own depth perception finally snapped in. Before, he had merely aimed the top of the Old Dog toward the nozzle light ahead; now he could better gauge the actual distance involved.

"Still no-" The boom operator paused. For an instant he could discern an object passing just on the edges of his wide pod window. He tried to piece that glimpse into a whole airplane, but it was impossible.

"Stabilized precontact," Ormack reported.

"What?" from the boom operator.

Nothing. The boom operator saw nothing below him except a single light. Everything else melted completely into the space around it.

The precontact position on most large aircraft was twenty feet behind and ten feet below the nozzle, less than sixty feet from where he and Colonel Sands sat in the boom pod. They were looking directly below the nozzle, in the glow of the small nozzle light, and there was nothing. In the depths of the growing twilight, Mason thought he could see the outline of a large aircraft-but it could just as easily be his imagination playing tricks on him. "Genesis, I'm going to turn on the belly lights."

"Who's in the pod?" Elliott asked quickly.

"Colonel Sands and Tech Sergeant Mason," the boom operator replied.

"Okay. Eddie, make sure that's all that goes in there."

"Hell, I'm not sure if I want to be here."

"Clear on the belly lights," Ormack said, taking a firm grip on the yoke. The boom operator reached above him and flicked a switch.

And suddenly there it was. The long, pointed nose stretched underneath the boom pod. Just on the edge of the pod window the outline of the eleven missiles were visible on their gray pylons. In the direct glare of the tanker's light the forward fuselage could now be seen, but the rest of the plane, aft of the training edge wing roots and beyond, was invisible. Through the sleek, sharp, Oriental-like angles of the strong-looking cockpit windows, the pilot and co-pilot, without helmets or oxygen masks, could barely be made out.

"What the The boom operator's words stuck in his throat.

"You got him, booms?" Reynolds asked over the tanker's interphone.

"What is it?"

"It's… it's a B-52… I think," Mason stammered over interphone.

"You think?What the hell is it?"

"It's a damned spaceship. It's…"

"Acknowledge, Icepack," Ormack repeated. "Stabilized precontact and ready."

"Elliott, what the hell are you flying?" Sands demanded.

"Gas first, Eddie. Questions later."

"Forward ten," the boomer asked. "Cleared to contact position. Icepack is ready. "Ormack expertly slid the Megafortress ahead. His practice and experience made for a steady platform, so all the boomer had to do was extend the nozzle a few feet.

"Genesis showing contact," Ormack asked. "Nice job, boom.

Icepack has contact," Mason reported. He started the fuel pumps.

"Taking fuel, no leaks."

"Taking fuel," Ormack acknowledged.

"All right, Genesis," Sands asked. "How about some answers?"

"Eddie, you don't want to know," Elliott told him, glanced over at John Ormack and managed a smile. The Megafortress was so smooth and steady that it was easy for Ormack to keep the huge bomber in the boom's refueling envelope-it seemed he was scarcely touching the controls.

"You don't want to know where we've been, where we're going, or what we're doing."

"Where you're going?There's no question about where, General. You know-hell, you knew about my code words so you must know-that I can only give you enough fuel to make it to Shemya or a suitable alternate.

I can't fill you up."

"You've got to, Colonel. We need as close to full tanks as possible.

"General, I've busted more rules in the past twenty minutes than I've done in two years. And that's a lot, even for me. I can't give you that much-" "This isn't a strip alert refueling any more, Eddie," Elliott asked. "This is now an unscheduled, alternate tactical refueling.

We had tanker support from Eielson and Fairchild scheduled but they didn't launch. Now you're it."

"You had two tankers?" Sands asked. "Where the hell you going with two-T' And then Sands stopped, looked in disbelief at Mason. They arrived at the answer simultaneously.

Missiles on the strange B-52's wings…

"Elliott," Sands finally asked. "What the hell is going on?"

No reply.

Jesus Christ," Sands said. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and stared at the bomber below them.

"Ashley?"

"Computing max off load now, Colonel," the co-pilot replied, pulling out his performance manuals, charts, and flight plans.

"Give us enough to land at Anchorage with ten thousand over the high fix," Sands told the co-pilot. "We may need it if runway conditions at Shemya deteriorate. God damn."

Under the close eye of Mason on board the KC-10 and Elliot aboard the Old Dog, it was nearly an hour later when Ashley nodded to the flight engineer, who radioed back to the boompod on the tanker's interphone.

Elliott looked across the cockpit and rechecked the fuel distribution system's indicators. Ormack had taken it off automatic" to avoid putting fuel into the left outboard wing tank in case it sustained any damage when the tip ripped off at Dreamland, and now the system required careful monitoring.

"Showing no flow down here," he radioed to the tanker.

"That's it, Genesis," Ashley asked. "We've got enough to return to Shemya, shoot one approach, go missed approach, and arrive at Anchorage with ten thousand over the fix."

Elliott totaled up the gauges and checked it against the fuel totalizer. It would have to do.

— I'll take a disconnect, Icepack," Ormack said. In the refueling pod Mason gave a short countdown and punched the nozzle out of the Old Dog's receptacle. Ormack reached up and closed the slipway door.

"Descending to two-seven zero," Ormack reported.

"Eddie, I want to thank you for your cooperation," Elliott said as the Old Dog began its descent away from the KC-10 tanker. "I assure you, I'll take full responsibility for any heat you might take."

"I'm counting on that, General," Sands asked. "I guess this makes us even."

"We were always even."

"Maybe… You know I have to file a report about this.

The refueling, the comm jamming, the expended munitions.

Everything.

"Of course. No offense intended, Eddie, but I know you'll file the report in your usual complete, timely, thorough manner.

"Anything else you need, General?" Sands asked, biting out the words.

"A name, Eddie," Elliott asked. "A tanker, a deployment, a large aircraft from Anchorage that passed by within the past twelve hours.

— Sure, why not?" Sands turned to the interphone, asked the co-pilot for the communications kit, then said over the radio, "Might as well set an all-time record for breaking the rules in one glorious day."

""Bag' was a KC-10 fighter drag from Elmendorf to Nellis," Ashley said, checking his classified call sign booklet.

""Crow' was an AWACS from Eielson to Sapporo. "Lantern' was a KC-10 from Elmendorf to Kadena."

"I'm not going to ask why you needed that," Sands said.

"Can we turn around now?How much further toward never never land do we have to follow you?"

"Clear to turn, Eddie-and thanks."

"See you Sands watched as the descending bomber melted into the darkness.

"Genesis is clear," Elliott reported to him- Then, silence.

The lights on the huge aircraft blinked out, and it disappeared completely.

The boom operator looked wearily at Colonel Sands.

"Reynolds, are the radios clear?"

"Negative," the pilot told Sands. "Still heavy jamming.

"Well, he can't jam SATCOM, — Sands replied angrily.

"Transmit a post-refueling report directly to SAC.Label it URGENT.

Report the receiver's call sign, direction of flight, onload, everything. As soon as we're out of range of their jammers, direct command post to make a transcript of the radio transmissions. "Sands stared out the boom window into the inky blackness. "I'll file it in my usual timely, efficient manner,Chr(34)+ you old bastard," Sands muttered.

"And I'll be there to watch you roast on a spit.

"So what's the news?" Elliott asked Ormack. The co-pilot had just got off the interphone with McLanahan, coordinating the distances, altitudes, and fuel flows. Elliott had just finished a five-minute stint on the firefighting oxygen mask and had done a.station check of the cockpit and left and right load central I circuit breaker panels, the two massive walls of circuit breakers and fuses lining the pressure cabin between the ilot's and defensive operator's compartments. He had also checked for fuel leaks around the air refueling valve in the upper deck walkway.

"Want the good news or bad news first?" McLanahan asked him.

"Better give me the bad news first."

"We are some sixty thousand pounds short of fuel," Ormack said.

Elliott had no answer to that one. The enormous quantity involved…

"Eighteen thousand of that, of course, was the left outboard drop tank," Ormack went on. "I Put some fuel in the left inboard drop and left outboard wing tanks during refueling, but there's a serious leak in both those tanks and it's almost goneabout fifteen thousand pounds.

I transferred the rest into the mains to keep from losing it all.

There might also be a small leak in the right outboard tank, which happened when we hit the hangar. Our automatic fuel management system is now out the porthole until the right drop tank and outboards are dry.

That's why we have so much rudder trim in-the right wing is twenty-one tons heavier than the left."

"Sixty thousand pounds short," Elliott muttered. "Two hours' fuel.

Well, what's the good news?"

"I've been looking at the aeronautical charts on board," McLanahan began. "There are some civil aviation airways from Alaska to Japan that cross very close to the Kamchatka peninsula. "Elliott said, as Ormack pulled out his copy of the high-altitude navigation chart from his publications bin. "The Russians can't completely close off their airspace, even their air defense identification zone. But we'd need a flight plan to enter that airway. If we just appear out of nowhere we'll get intercepted for sure.

"But they won't see us Ormack asked, "How can they miss us?That air-way is Wendy Tork said.

only he measured the distance with a pencil about a hundred and twenty miles from their radar."

"Well, Seattle Center couldn't see us at that same distance.

Remember, they only had a secondary beacon target on us, on our transponder. And I'd guess that Seattle's radar is better than a Siberian one. Our fibersteel skin has already proved itselfLos Angeles Center couldn't see us after we launched out of Dreamland, and we were right in the middle of their airspace."

"But we've somehow got to jump into their coastline," Ormack said.

"How do we do that?"

"Dave and I have been doing some wagging on the computer down here," McLanahan said, "and here's what we've come up with… there's an island off the east coast of the Kamchatka peninsula, midway between Kavaznya to the north and the sub pens at Petropavlovsk to the south.

It's pretty big and has an airfield-if I'm not mistaken they've got sub communications gear there.

"Beringa," Dave said, pointing to his high-altitude map.

"They've got a circle around it that looks like surveillance radar only. No high-altitude coverage. "He went back to his work on the computer terminal.

"Beringa island," McLanahan took it up, "is right in a gap in high-altitude radar coverage between Ossora Airfield near Kavaznya and Petropavlovsk. It's also only a few miles off the high-altitude airway between Anchorage and Japan. We can head toward that gap, cut just to the south of surveillance radar coverage at Beringa, and still be at high altitude all the way Once we get inside high-altitude radar coverage, we'll only be about seventeen minutes from the coast. We duck under high altitude radar and then get into the mountains along the spine of the Kamchatka peninsula. If we stay away from Beringa radar, the lowest we'll have to go is about five thousand feet until we get into Kavaznya low-altitude surveillance radar coverage."

"Did you work out the fuel for a plan like that?" Elliott asked.

Yes, " Luger told him, "and it's close. We'd never make it back to Eielson, that's for sure. We'd barely make it back across the Bering Strait, but we'd do it. "I hope, he added to himself.

Ormack looked at Elliott, who shrugged. "Looks like one of those ice-bound alternates will have to do," he said.

"We do have another problem," Luger said, checking the computer display again. "The computer doesn't have elevation data for any of the Kamchatka peninsula except for about a hundred miles around Kavaznya.

That means that most of the ride up the mountain ranges would be either at safe-clearance attitudes or manual terrain-avoidance. That's a pretty wild ride even for our experienced crew. We're good, but good enough for two hours of manual terrain-following?We have no detailed charts, no terrain elevations. We'd be relying on radar the whole way until the Computer could start driving the boat."

"Well," Elliott said, "now I know why we brought two navigators along.

Do you think you could have come up with all that so fast, John?"

Ormack shook his head. "Not with all the computers in Japan, General." "well, we've got the gas, and now we've got a plan.

Patrick, Dave, how long will it take you to reenter your new flight plan in the computer?"

In reply, the steering bug on the pilot's Attitude-Directional Indicator swung around until it was pointing about twenty degrees left of their present heading. "Steering is good to intercept the airway," Luger asked. "The new flight plan is entered and active."

"Are we clear of Attu airspace?" Elliott asked.

"Affirmative," McLanahan said, checking his chart and the satellite navigator's present position readout. "Attu is off our lour o'clock, just over a hundred miles. We're in international airspace.

"Second-station computer control coming in," Elliott said.

He engaged the autopilot. The Old Dog banked left in response to the new information to the navigation computers, and the ming signals.

Soon the heading bug was centered at the top of the heading indicator case.thin high radar coverage of Ossora Airfield in "We'll be wild about an hour," Luger reported "Good," Elliott said. He forced himself to relax and found that his grip on the yoke was that much tighter.

"If there are any last-minute equipment checks to do, now's the time to do them. If not, try to get some rest. "Ormack looked across at the three-star general beside him, and they exchanged smiles.

"Well, at least try to relax," Elliott corrected himself.

Luger checked the position and heading readouts and marked a fix point on his chart.""Relax,Chr(34)+ he says. Better said to the target-a target in goddamned Russia-and he than done. Less than an hour from low level, about two hours wants us to He glanced over at McLanahan. His partner had his arms wrapped around his body, his head awkwardly lying back on the headrest of his ejection seat. His snoring could be clearly heard over the roar of the Old Dog's eight turbofan engines.

"Amazing," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Absolutely fuckin' amazing."

"Ten minutes from horizon crossing," Luger announced.

McLanahan had just caught Luger's last announcement as he plugged into the defense instructor's interphone cord once again. He handed Wendy and Angelina two cans of water each and a green packet of freeze-dried food. "Leave one can out for now, and stick the rest in the pockets in the liner of your jackets. "He watched as both women unbuckled their parachute harnesses. They were now wearing life preservers, small green pouches on a harness on their waists, and had to unbuckle those to unzip their jackets and stuff the water and food into the jacket pockets.

Angelina's water and food rations stuck out in bulky bulges from her denim jacket. With McLanahan's help she refastened her parachute harness and slipped on the silver firefighting gloves she was using as flight gloves. Wendy had already given Angelina her thermal underwear tops and was drinking hot soup made in the cup downstairs. Angelina, however, still shivered in the chill of the Old Dog's upper cabin "Comfy?" McLanahan said to Angelina. "I hope you ladies don't have to go potty now.

Angelina turned on him. "Are we supposed to eat this stuff in a life raft bobbing in the North Pacific Ocean?What's the int?"

McLanahan looked at Wendy-that scenario had never occurred to her.

He cleared his throat and said quickly, "Nah. Down low level the aircraft shakes around a bit. Things tend to roll around. You don't want to have to unstrap to look for your water. "It was a lame excuse, but Angelina, noticing Wendy's thin-lipped expression, nodded and turned again to her equipment.

Wendy was staring blankly at her threat receiver display. "I wonder if we're kidding ourselves about what we're doing "The thought has crossed my mind," McLanahan asked. "It's impossible to be certain about that.

I think that… well.

you have to listen to your gut I keep seeing Hal Briggs trying to open that fence for us back at Dreamland, I wonder it' he's okay General Elliott came over the interphone. "Patrick, get strapped in. Time, Dave?"

"Two minutes to horizon passage," Luger reported.

McLanahan gave Wendy what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze on the arm, then turned and climbed downstairs back to his seat.

"Horizon passage," Luger announced, marking a fixpoint on the high-altitude airways chart he was using. "Two hundred J!and seventy miles to Kavaznya."

"Scope's clear," Wendy reported quietly, still thinking about what McLanahan had said. Her voice recovered its strength, though, as she brought her attention back to business. "We're still at extreme detection range. With our fibersteel body and anti-radar enhancements they might not get a radar return from us until we're about one hundred miles out. If then."

"Will you be able to tell if they can see us?" Elliott asked.

"I'll be able to see their transmission signal when it comes up," she replied. "I've got an idea from Seattle Center's radar and from the Shemya tanker and the fighters Colonel Sands chased us with what signal strength it takes to get a solid skin on us, so I can tell you when we're getting close to that. I can also see if they search or try to lock onto us with any height-finding or missile-guidance radars.

"And nothing so far?"

"Nothing. Not even search radar. But being so close to the horizon does strange things to electronic transmissions. They could've spotted us even before we crossed the plane of their horizon without my knowing, or they might not see us until we're well above the horizon.

It's hard to predict-radar bounces off the ionosphere in weird ways.

Like I said, they may already have detected us.

Elliott checked the I.F.F controls to make sure they were all off.

"Crew, double-check around your stations to be sure you're not transmitting on anything. Radars, radios, jammers, anything. Switch your wafer switches to INTERPHONE to keep from accidentally talking over the radios."

McLanahan double checked his interphone switches, also checked to make sure the circuit controlling the bomb bay walkway lights were off-if they had to open the bomb doors the walkway lights could easily give the bomber away at night.

"Offensive checks," McLanahan reported.

"How far are we from-" "Search radar at two o'clock," Wendy suddenly called out.

The announcement shook up McLanahan and Luger in the lower offensive crew compartment.

"Here we go," Luger said. He was bundled up with his jacket zipped up to his chin, collars pulled up. He had long ago cleared off his retractable work desk. Only the high-altitude chart remained.

"It feels so weird," McLanahan asked. "They can see us now. It feels a lot different."

"Yeah," Luger said, "Kind of a joy ride-until now."

"Two o'clock?" Elliott asked. "What's at two o'clock?Korf Airfield?

Anadyr?It can't be Ossora or Kavaznya-unless we're off course-they should be at twelve o'clock."

Wendy studied her frequency video. "It's a different frequency than a ground-based radar, and it's stronger than the radar should be so far away."

"Could it be the laser's tracking radar?"

No, this one has a very low frequency-an old system. I think this is an airborne search radar."

"Airborne?" Ormack said in surprise. "Maritime reconnaissance or some sort of patrol-" "Or a chance encounter," Elliott asked. "Let's wait to sec what-" He's got us," Wendy announced, studying the frequency shift and listening to the radar's real audio. "Change from a slow scan to lock-on. No height-finder or uplink-just a faster scan."

"Like station-keeping?" McLanahan asked. "Like a mapping radar switched to narrow sector?"

"That would explain it," Wendy asked. "He's transmitting on UHE "Can you get a frequency?" Elliott asked her.

"Only a wide frequency range. High UHE I can't tell if he's getting a response."

Let me try to get him on attack radar," McLanahan said.

"At least confirm if he's airborne.""Go ahead," Elliott asked. "No more than a few seconds, though.

McLanahan adjusted the antenna controls to point his large attack radar at two o'clock, set the range for a hundred miles, then greased the TRANSMIT button. After three full sweeps he turned the radar back to STANDBY "Looks like he's airborne, all right. Two o'clock, sixty miles. With my antenna tilt two degrees below level I'd estimate his altitude at thirty-three thousand feet-" And then came the challenge: "Unknown aircraft, two hundred and forty kilometers northeast of Ostrov Kornmandorskiye, respond. "Followed by another message, which sounded like the same request, this time in Russian.

"That's us," Luger confirmed. "About a hundred and thirty miles northeast of Beringa."

"Sounded like he was on GUARD channel," Ormack said.

monitoring the emergency U.H.F channel. "Do we answer him?"

"You're sure he's tracking us, Wendy?" Elliott asked.

"He can see us, all right, but I don't think he's tracking us.

Just following us with his radar. There's no guidance-type tracking signal."

"How far are we from the Alaska-Japan airway?" Luger checked his chart against the computer's present-position readout. "Just a few minutes ahead-" "Unknown aircraft, please respond. Pazhaloosta."

"Please?" General Elliott smiled. "Sounds like a kid. A polite kid."

Orinack looked at his pilot with surprise. "I didn't know you understood Russian."

"I learned just enough to get my head blown off," Elliott said. He thought for a moment. "If we tried to duck down to low-level now-" "He might lose us if we pushed it over hard enough," Orinack asked. "We might make it."

"I don't think he could follow us with his radar," Wendy added. "It doesn't seem to be a sophisticated system, but he'd report losing us.

He's also in contact with someone out there. It might be Ossora Or it might be a wingman," McLanahan put in. "Maybe am escort.

"Can you jam his transmissions, Wendy?" Elliott asked.

"Yes, but that would be a dead giveaway."

"All right. Let's get on the airway and see what this guy does. "He turned the wheel, and the bomber banked steeply to the left. "If he intercepts us, we'll have to-try to down him.

No other choice. Copy, Angelina?"

"I'm ready, General," she said, checking her weapon-status indications.

"We'll be just outside radar range of Beringa on this heading," Luger reported as the Old Dog completed its steep turn.

"Permission to use the tail radar to pick him up, General," Angelina called.

"Not yet. "Elliott took a deep breath, pulled the microphone closer to his lips, then switched his radio switch to GUARD.

"Calling unknown aircraft, this is Lantern four-five Fox on GUARD.Say your call sign. Over."

"Lantern four-five Fox, this is Besarina two-two-one on GUARD.I read you loud and clear. "The Soviet pilot then said something in Russian.

"Besarina two-two-one, I read you, but I don't understand Russian."

Elliott paused, then said, "Ya in gavaryoo na vashim yizikye kharasho.

Say again."

"Prastiti. I am sorry, four-five Fox. You… you are United States aircraft?"

"Da.""Amirikanskaya "the Soviet pilot said excitedly Then, more officially, reported, "Four-five Fox, you are at our twelve o'clock position, seven-six kilometers. "A slight pause.

I never talk to United States before."

Orinack let out a long breath of air. "Looks like you may have made a friend, General."

"Two-two-one, you are Soviet military plane?" Elliott asked.

"Yes!" came an enthusiastic reply. "Pay Vay Oh Strany. Far East Command. "Elliott translated to the crew, as he did all the Russian.

"I" VO Strany," Elliott said over interphone. "Air Defense unit. Could be a Bear or Backfire recon plane."

"Or a fighter," Angelina said.

"Gyda vi zhivyoti-excuse, pazhaloosta. Where you from, four-five Fox?"

the Soviet pilot asked. "New York?Los Angeles?I know San Francisco."

"Butte, Montana," Elliott asked. Let him chew on that.

"Mon-tanya? My English not very good. They teach English but we do not use much. Difficult."

A pause, then: "Four-five Fox, contact Kommandorskiye Approach on two-six-five decimal five. Immediately. "The new voice was clipped, military, authoritative.

"Da, tovarisch," Elliott replied.

"I report… I report you on course okay, commander," the Russian pilot said in a low, almost secretive voice. "You correcting back.

Not okay to come closer. Okay, commander?"

"Balshoya spasiba, tovarisch," Elliott replied. "Thank you.

"Pazhaloosta. Nice to talk English to you, Montanya."

"Two-six-five decimal five, roger," Elliott repeated. Just before he changed channels he asked, "Atkooda vi?Where are you from, two-two-one?"

"Yaiz-er, I from Kevitz," the Soviet pilot said with hometown pride.

"Big fisherman. Nice to talk, Montanya.

Dasfidamya, mnyabileochin priyatna!"

Ormack shook his head as he changed the radio frequency.

"Nice son of a bitch, wasn't he?"

"Kevitz," Elliott asked. "That's what Kavaznya was known as before they built the laser there."

"He gave us a break," Luger asked. "I'll bet he plotted our position.

He must've noticed us because we were so far outside the airway "He's not scanning us on radar anymore," Wendy reported.

Elliott reset the frequency on the number one radio.

"You're not going to contact Kommandorskiye, are you General"" Ormack said.

"We don't have any choice, John. If we don't contact them, our friendly Bolshevik back there comes back and blows Montanya and his friends away."

Elliott keyed the microphone. "Kommandorskiye Approach, Lantern four-five Fox is with you at flight level fourfive-zero.

"Lantern four-five Fox, roger, at flight level four-five-zero," the Russian air traffic controller replied in hesitant English.

"Say your heading, please."

"Sto shizfisyat. Heading is one-six-zero, Approach."

"Roger, four-five Fox. Spasiba. "There was a slight pause, then: "I do not have a flight plan for you, Lantern four-five Fox.

"No shit," Ormack said over interphone.

"We are on a military flight plan from Alaska to Japan, Elliott said.

"I show no flight plan," the controller repeated. "Please relay type of aircraft, departure base, destination base, time enroute, hours of fuel on board, and persons on board, please."

"No way," Ormack said.

"I haven't done an international flight plan in years, but at least I know it's never relayed to a Soviet controller.

"Yes," Elliott said, "you're right. This guy's just fishing for information. "On the radio Elliott said, "Kommandorskiye, we will ask Kadena overwater flight following to relay our flight plan to you."

"I will be happy to take the information, sir," the controller said "as a convenience."

Nice try, Ivan, Elliott said to himself. Over the radio: "Thank you Kommandorskiye. We will notify Kadena. Stand by.

"Very well," the controller replied coldly "Lantern fourfive Fox, squawk three-seven-seven-one and ident.

"Shit," Ormack asked. "Now he wants us to get a squawk.

"Looks like we're digging a hole for ourselves," Elliott said, reached down and set the four-digit I.F.F identification and tracking code, leaving the altitude encoding and modes one, two, and four switchs off.

He then switched the I.F.F to ON and hit the IDENT button.

"Four-five Fox squawking," Elliott said.

"Radar identified, Lantern four-five Fox," the Soviet controller replied. "I am not reading your altitude. Please recycle mode C."

"Recycling," Elliott said. He turned the mode C altitude encoder on.

"I am reading your altitude-" Elliott switched him off.

"I have lost your altitude again, four-five Fox. Recycle again, Please. "Elliott repeated his "failed" mode C routine.

"Your mode C appears to be intermittent, four-five Fox," the controller at Beringa finally said.

"Roger, we'll write it up, sir."

"I cannot allow you to cross into Petropavlovsk airspace without a fully operable identification encoder, four-five Fox," the controller asked. "Please turn twenty degrees left, vectors clear of Soviet airspace. Maintain heading for one-five minutes, then resume own navigation. Ochin zhal. Sony."

"How far does that put us off the airway?" Elliott asked Luger.

We're almost on the airway now. We'd end up seventy, eighty miles west."

Elliott turned the Old Dog to the new heading.

"How long are we going to be in Beringa's radar coverage?"

"We're only on the edge of it now," Luger said.

"Their radar signal is very weak," Wendy asked. "No guarantee-but I don't think they've got a primary target on us.

"Meaning Ormack began.

"If we shut the I.F.F off, we disappear," Elliott asked. "Just like Seattle. Patrick, how far are we from your next planned turn-point inland?"

"We'll never hit it on this heading."

"Call it up," Elliott said, taking manual control of the Old The computer heading bug swung almost fifty degrees to right.

minutes," Elliott estimated. "That puts us "About twenty between both Bcringa and Petropavlovsk radars."

"And as close to the coast as we can get between the two radars," McLanahan added.

"I don't think it'll take Beringa that long to discover we don't have a flight plan," Elliott asked. "Things are going to get hairy pretty soon. Wendy, you're sure he can't see us?"

"As sure as I can be."

"Can you jam their radar in case he spots us?"

— Yes, I'm positive of that."

Elliott adjusted his parachute harness. "This means we're close to the penetration descent, crew. Wendy, prepare to take the Center radar down. We'll be making a power-off descent in a few seconds. When everyone's ready to go, we'll start a gradual turn toward the gap in the radar coverage. When Beringa notices us off-course we'll engage the terrainavoidance computers, make a rapid descent to five thousand feet and a quick turn toward the gap. Once we go coast-in we'll stay at five thousand unless the navigators tell us differently.

We'll rely on the shorter-range mapping radar to stay down just low enough to clear the terrain until the computer enters the altitude-plotted region, then put it on the deck when we get within range of Kavaznya's radars-or if we get chased down beforehand.

Questions?Okay, how much time to the gap?"

"About fifteen minutes, General," Luger said.

"Anyone looking at us, Wendy?"

Wendy was studying her scope, cross-checking some of the signals present with a frequency comparison chart in her checklist. "I can see Beringa looking for us, but I'm sure they can't get a primary target on us-their signal is very weak. No airborne radars up. There's…

"What?"

"Another search radar comes up only every few minutes or so," she said, puzzled. "It's not a Soviet radar, at least not one I've seen before.

It's extremely weak and intermittent-like it's being turned on and off at random."

"Can it see us?" Elliott asked her. "Could it spot us if we were at low altitude?"

"I don't think so. It doesn't come up long enough for me to analyze, but the signal is so intermittent that I don't think they could spot us even if they could see us. It could be nothing more than a trawler or cargo ship with a weather radar."

"Well," Elliott said, unclenching his hands from the yoke, trying to relax, "it seems we've got more than enough to think about.

Gently he eased the wheel to the right and pointed the sleek nose of the Old Dog toward the Soviet Union.

"Here we go The Chief of Intelligence aboard the U.S.S. Lawrence ran down the metal hallway to the radio room, where a small knot of officers, enlisted personnel and civilian technicians clustered around one bank of radio scanners.

"What the hell is going on?" Markham asked as he pulled off his orange fur-lined jacket.

"An American aircraft, Commander Markham," Lieutenant J.G. Beech, the senior controller, reported hastily, cocking one earpiece of his headset to the side-but not enough to keep him from listening to the channels he was monitoring. A seaman 44 came up to him with a short message. The senior controller read it quickly, swearing softly to himself.

:f "Well, what the hell is it, Beech?"

"An American aircraft, Commander," Beech asked. "Came over U.H.F GUARD emergency channel a few minutes ago."

He shook his head. "The aircraft is in Soviet airspace, being controlled by a Soviet controller-" "An American aircraft?" Markham grabbed the note out of Beech's hand.

"Lantern four-five Fox," Markham read. "Lantern. That sounds familiar."

"It should," Beech asked. "We monitored four Lanterns from Elmendorf dragging a bunch of F-4s to Japan yesterday. Those were KC-10s with an international flight plan-coordinated days in advance. Lantern two-one through two-four."

"Did you get this guy's flight plan?"

"There's no Lantern four-five Fox," Beech asked. "Never was. It didn't come out of Elmendorf.

A i "Where, then?"

"We're double-checking," Beech asked. "But this guy has no flight plan.

We're trying to get confirmation from Elmendorf but so far we have nothing.

"Did you get anything?" Markham asked. "Type aircraft?

Anything?"

"Nothing. I'll get the tape for the staff meeting, but there was nothing. A Soviet controller in Beringa Island in the Kornmandorskiyes asked him all that when he looked up his flight plan, but he didn't tell him anything… Here's how it went, sir… a PVO Strany jet out of Petropavlovsk picks up a Lantern four-five Fox on airborne radar and calls for him in the blind on GUARD.When he started to call we got on the radar and looked for him, too. We had the PVO jet all the way but we couldn't find the other guy until the PVO jet called out his range and bearing. We plotted him forty miles east of the airway-and then we got a track on him. This four-five Fox plane looked like he was heading toward Russia " "Toward Russia?" Markham swiveled in the navy-gray seat.

"From where?Didn't we see him before?"

"He just sort of appeared out of nowhere. We weren't really scanning for aircraft but we should have spotted him before the Strany surveillance plane did. I don't know how we-" PVO "Where is he now?"

"We lost contact with four-five Fox right after he crossed back onto the airway," Beech asked. "Apparently he was crossing south of the Kommandorskiyes, and that's just about the limit of our coverage.

"But get this-when we picked him up on radar he wasn't squawking anything. When he contacted Befinga they assigned him a mode three squawk, but his mode C altitude readout was out. Then Beringa kicks him out of their airspace and gives him a vector out around Petropavlovsk airspace."

"Jesus," Markham said, wiping his forehead. "Someone's screwing up but bad here. "He thought for a moment. "No mode one?Mode two?

Four?"

Those were U.S. military-only identification codes.

"Nothing-not even after Beringa talked to him."

"An aircraft with a military call sign," Markham said, "but with nothing but mode three-and that assigned by a Soviet controller.

"He was speaking Russian to him, too, sir," a technician said from a nearby radio console.

"Russian?" Markham asked. "What the hell was he saying?"

"Conversational. Please, thank you, that sort of thing.

Asked the PVO Strany recon jet pilot where he was from."

"Did the Lantern pilot sound Russian?"

"No, sounded like maybe he used to speak it in the past, but he was definitely American. Even said he was from Butte, Montana.

"We have no further contact with this guy?"

"Radio contact only," Beech said, "but he hasn't talked to Beringa for some time so we couldn't get an updated DF steer on him. "He motioned over to a large glass plotting board near the Communications center, which he and Markham walked over to.

"Here's our Position," Beech told the intelligence chief, pointing to a tiny ship sticker, "a hundred and fifty miles west northeast of the Kommandorskiyes. Here's the airway-we're sitting almost directly under it. We first plotted the unknown aircraft here, northwest of us and forty miles east of the airway, heading southeast. He intersected the airway here and flew along it for a few minutes until Beringa chased him further away from Petropavlovsk airspace, which he'd run into in about twenty to thirty minutes. Our last DF steer put him south of the Kommandorskiyes, a little bit west of the airway. But Beringa control had confirmed him on a mag heading of onefour-zero, which would put him well outside Petropavlovsk airspace. Even if he went direct to Sapporo or Tokyo he'd never get close enough to worry anyone."

" Is there any chance this could be a Soviet aircraft?"

Markham asked. "How do we know it's American?"

Beech looked puzzled. "Well except for his call sign, we don't, sir."

"But you've said there's no Lantern four-five Fox from anywhere.

"We haven't received confirmation from Elmendorf," Beech asked. "They won't talk about their aircraft on unsecured radios. All we know is that no flight plan has been filed on a Lantern four-five Fox. It could've been dropped, or filed late It's unusual but it can happen.

And… well, he sounded American, sounded military.

"Enlightened speculation goes down okay here, Beech," Markham said, trying to smile but not managing it.

do we account for this?" Markham pointed to the "But how projected trackline of the unknown aircraft. "What's he doing way the hell over here?"

Beech shrugged. "Maybe he got lost. Really lost. Maybe he's sightseeing. Joyriding. Some jet jockey with a fake call sign playing fucking Red Rover with the Russians?"

"Well, we'll leave that one to the CIA or the Air Force," Markham said.

He stood and stretched. "Send a report to headquarters about this guy.

Advise to obtain positive identified airspace. Suggest a cation before allowing him into Japanes navy or DIA investigation on him when he lands. "He ran his hands over his expanding belly. "I'm going to see if they've dreamed up anything new to do with hamburger in the mess.

I'll be upstairs."called out, sir.

"Lieutenant Ch Baenencehl, Chr(34)+s'evoenneteoefn the radio operators suddenly Beech replaced his headset. After a moment he said Sir, listen to this."urgently, "Jonesy, put it on speakers.

The operator flipped a few switches, and soon the room was filled with static. A few moments later a Russian accent boomed, "Lantern four-five Fox, acknowledge."

"It's Beringa," Beech said to Markham.

"Lantern four-five Fox, this is Kommandorskiye Approach Control on GUARD frequency. Urge Soviet airspace. Lantern four five Fox, turn thirty degrees left nt. You are violating immediately and ident. Repeat. You are one-zero-zero kilometers off course and in violation of Soviet airspace. Turn left thirty degrees immediately and ident. "The warning was then repeated in Russian and in clumsy Chinese.

"One hundred kilometers," Beech asked. "What the hell is that guy up to?"

"Whatever," Markham said, "he's in deep shit now."

"Lantern four-five Fox, this is Kommandorskiye Approach on GUARD.I have lost your beacon. Repeat, I have lost your beacon. Check your I.F.F is in NORMAL and squawk ident immediately. You are in violation of Soviet airspace. Identify yourself immediately."

"That's it," Markham asked. "Cancel that last report. Prepare a priority One message for Pacific Fleet headquarters. Say that an unidentified aircraft, presumed American military, has violated Soviet airspace. Give our position and the last reported and estimated position of the aircraft. Soviet intentions are unknown but we expect them to search, intercept and destroy. We do not have any reason to believe that the unknown aircraft has an emergency, but tell them that he may be having navigational difficulties. More details to follow.

I'll have the Captain sign it immediately And get a report ready for the Old Man," Markham told Beech. "He's gonna want one fast. I'm going to get permission to send up a radar balloon."

"We may be able to move closer to his last reported position," Beech suggested. "Get on the other side of the Kommandorskiyes. If this guy's in trouble we can-" "We haven't even established if the son of a bitch is American," Markham cut in. "He could be part of some elaborate Russian scheme to pull us away from monitoring Kavaznya.

I'll suggest it, Beech.but I won't recommend it.

Besides, he'd be too far inside Soviet territory for us to do anything.

As his intelligence people hurried to execute his orders, Markham studied the plotting board. In front of him a technician made a series of computations and drew another line, plotting the unknown aircrafts possible location.

"I don't know who you are," Markham said under his breath, "but, buddy, you just stirred up one hell of a hornet's nest.

"Call up the next point," Elliott said. His arms were extended almost straight out from his body, straining to hold the control yoke forward, forcing the Old Dog down toward the dark waters of the north Pacific.

The heading bug swung twenty degrees to the right. As the Old Dog started a right turn to the new computerized heading, Elliott spun the large trim wheel by his right knee forward to help him hold the bomber's nose down-at the current rate of descent and high airspeed, the Megafortress wanted nothing except to zoom skyward.

As he reached for the trim wheel Elliott touched his right knee. The feeling-a tingling sensation, like it was asleep-had still been there a few hours ago, but it was gone now. A ring of pain encircled his thigh midway between his knee and hip like a clamp. A muscle twitched involuntarily on his right buttock. He looked over and saw Ormack carefully watching him.

"Bad?"

"Just watch your damn instruments, John."

Ormack nodded, not reassured.

Nearly forty years earlier, Elliott recalled, he had hurt that knee falling out of a hayloft on his father's farm. While sitting in the school library, sidelined from the football team, he had read all the books printed on the subject of knee injuries, vitamins to help mending ligaments, special exercises to strengthen muscles.

After the cast came off he nursed the weakened knee back to health in only a few weeks, just in time the state for baseball season. The year his school won championship. He remembered the pride he felt at the time.

Would he be as proud when this was over?

"Will that heading keep us clear of Beringa's radars" "it should," Luger asked. "It'll take us around on a onehundred-twenty-mile arc."

He checked the altimeter on his front instruments panel.it was spinning down faster than he'd ever seen, like a clock gone haywire.

He was so light in his seat that he had to snatch his charts and pencil in midair to keep them from floating away in the negative Gs. "Passing twenty-five thousand for-five thousand," he called out. He was remembering the way Major White's egress trainer back at Ford made his huge mechanical beast dance on its ten-foot hydraulic legs. Well, this was for real-and it was much more than White could ever dream up "Passing twenty thousand. "For Air Force Base seemed very, very far away.

"How far were we from your start-descent point, McLanahan?" Ormack asked.

"Still about six minutes.""That long "I'm surprised," Luger said, "that they took to catch us.

Hell, we were almost seventy miles off-course before they called us."

"Coming up on fifteen thousand," McLanahan sang out "Both radar altimeter channels are ready," Ormack repeated. "Clearance plane is set to five thousand feet. Autopilc pitch command mode slaved to radar altimeter."

"Good. "Elliott flipped switches on his left panel beside his ejection seat. "Okay, crew, listen up. You now have fit authorization for all defensive measures. Angelina, you have Scorpion missile consent.

Scorpion bay doors are at yo command. Keep your radar transmissions to an absolu minimum. Wendy, you have full jamming authority. If any tracking or guidance signals come up that you think are strong enough to paint us, jam the piss out of them. Patrick, you' now on interceptor watch. Leave navigation to Dave unless he needs help in the mountains.

If Wendy sees any fighters if it looks like they're trying to track us, you've got authority transmit and lock onto them."

"Passing ten thousand, General," Luger asked. "Five thousand to go.

Elliott slowly began to pull back on the yoke and bring the throttles forward from idle to cruise thrust. The roller-coaster descent began to subside. As Luger counted the altitude down, Elliott decreased the descent rate until the Old Dog was leveled off.

"Radar altimeter lock-on," Ormack announced. He flipped a switch, double-checking the readouts. "Both radar altimeter channels are ready" "Autopilot coming on," Elliott said. He flipped the auto pilot switch on. The Old Dog remained rock-steady at five thousand feet.

Now a pitch computer, slaved to signals from the radar altimeter, would work to keep the Old Dog at a mere five thousand feet above the water.

"Autopilot's engaged," Elliott confirmed. "Setting four thousand for a system check. "He turned the clearance-plane knob down one notch, and the Old Dog started a gentle dive, settling to precisely four thousand feet above the water.

"Resetting five thousand. "He turned the knob clockwise and the huge bomber started a slow climb back to five thousand "X, feet.

"Anybody looking for us, Wendy?" Elliott asked.

"Very low-power radar signals. Much too low to see us.

Nothing from Petropavlovsk radar. Lots of U.H.F and VHF radio transmissions, though."

"But none of it on GUARD any more, I'll bet," Ormack asked. "They know we can monitor GUARD."

"Which means they're no longer interested in rescue," Elliott said.

"No more Mister Nice-Guy. "He thought for a moment. "Time to the coast, Dave?"

"Twelve Minutes," Luger said, checking the computer readouts.

"I feel exposed down here," Elliott asked. "I feel everyone can see us.

I can't wait to get back into the dirt."

"I'd expect company long before that," Ormack asked. "I'd expect a fighter sweep of the area along our projected track line, then a second flight on the landward side."

"What altitude you figure the fighters will come in?" Elliott asked.

"If they have the resources-and I'll bet they do-it'll be a high-cap, low-cap arrangement. The lowest might be five thousand feet. More likely, eight to ten thousand. High-ca will be up around thirty thousand.

"How's the fuel situation?"

"Worse than I thought," Ormack told him. "I've just put the fuel management system back to automatic. The early descet had little effect on the curve, but the tip gear we're dragging just sucking our gas up. I have us at least five thousand belo, the revised fuel curve."

"Every pound of gas is critical now," Elliott asked. "Patric' can we cut off any points on your flight plan'?Cut this corner a bit?"

"Risky," McLanahan said, studying his chart. "We can head for the next point on the flight plan. It'll save us about five minutes or so, but it'll put us closer to a small town on the coastline. I wanted to avoid this town by at least ten miles, we cut the corner, we almost overfly it.""Ten minutes worth of fuel is a drop in the bucket," high altitude, bucket," Ormack asked. "Down here "Is that town defended?"

Elliott asked. "Any airfield there?Naval docks?"

"I don't know," McLanahan asked. "There's no detail like that on the charts I'm using."

"We'll have to risk it," Elliott asked. "The faster we get bac over land, the better I'll feel. Call up the next point, Patrick McLanahan punched up the new destination number on his keyboard, verified the coordinates with his penciled notes in the margin of his makeshift chart and displayed the destination. The pilot's heading bug shifted thirty degrees more to the right The Old Dog banked right in response.

"Landfall in six minutes," Luger said.

"Stay on watch, everyone," Elliott asked. "Stay on watch.

"They're launching the whole goddamned Russian Eastern Defense Command," Beech said. He was sitting in dire command of the intelligence section; Markham and Capt. Jacobs, captain of the Lawrence, were on the bridge.

"The son of a bitch couldn't have picked a worse place this side of the Caspian Sea to disappear off Russian radar Markham told Jacobs.

"Directly between Petropavlovsk and seven nuclear submarines in the pens to the south, z Kavaznya to the north.

"But how did he go off their radar?" Jacobs asked, studying the slides Markham's group had prepared of the situation. "I thought a mosquito couldn't get through their radar coverage."

"We're not sure, Captain.

More than likely, the guy crashed or ditched. Right from the beginning it sounded like the guy was having navigation problems."

"Navigation problems don't make planes ditch," Jacobs asked. "If he had a catastrophic emergency, enough to cause navigation or flight control problems, why the hell didn't he declare an emergency?The Russians would've helped him I've seen them do it before. "I don't know, sir.

He may have panicked. "Markham got up and pointed at the chart.

"Radar coverage is sort of skimpy around here, too," he said, as much to himself as to Jacobs.

"Petropavlovsk radar coverage doesn't quite extend this far north, but Beringa's radar does cover this entire gap."

Jacobs was about to say something but was interrupted by Beech on the intercom.

a "Captain, message from PVO Strany, Far East Command headquarters, to all units. In the clear. Uncoded."

"I'm surprised they didn't read part of it in English," Jacobs said.

"What are they saying?"

"Air Defense Emergency declared for the area. General orders for deploying searching fighters in the area. Complete closing of Soviet airspace."

"Send it, Markham asked. "Direct CINCPAC via JCS.

Priority One.

"Yes, sir."

Jacobs studied the chart closer, finally picked up a pair of dividers lying on the console near his seat.

"We use two hundred and fifty nautical miles for Center radars, right?"

Yes, sir," Markham asked. "Standard line-of-sight-ranging.

A bit more, depending on altitude.

"But you don't have a big circle around Beringa," Jacobs noted, measuring the lines around the islands that composed the Russian members of the Aleutian chain.

"They don't have a Center radar," Markham said, his excitement rising.

"They have shorter-range, low-altitude I capable radar. Approach control radar."

Jacobs measured a two hundred and fifty mile circle from Petropavlovsk.

The circle barely intersected the radar circle from Beringa.

"They overlap "But there's a gap," Markham said, pointing at the chart.

"They overlap, but there's still incomplete coverage. If you avoid this circle-", — he's out of range. "Jacobs stabbed the chart excitedly and looked at Markham. "And Petropavlovsk won't see him if- "If he's low level. Below five or six thousand feet, he gets lost in the background radar clutter, even over water.

"Wait a minute. "Jacobs held up a hand. "You said this guy was a tanker.

"He had a tanker call sign," Markham said, checking his notes.

"Lantern four-five Fox. Out of Elmendorf. But he had no flight plan, and Elmendorf reports no four-five Fox."

"So he's not a tanker. Then what?"

"A low-altitude penetrator?" Markham muttered.

"A bomber?" he knew exactly where to go. Exactly. How else "It seems would he know about the gaps in radar coverage?" spotted by that recon jet."

Markham nodded. "But… he surpris "Got his fingers caught in the cookie jar, maybe?"

Markham shook his head. "Spotted by a recon plane, he… he turns around before they figure out he's headed inland-" Jacobs said.

wizard Kavaznya "And he's disappeared again, going in the back way."

"Goddamn," Jacobs muttered. "Why me?Why now') sir," Markham reminded the captain, "None of our communications on this entire boat are completely secure, second-guessing him. "If we blow the whistle-" "Why the hell doesn't anybody tell us what's going on?

Well, it's too late now anyway. The whole Far East Command is after him. He won't get far."

"So what do we do?"

Jacobs shook his head. "We do nothing. Nothing we can do.

That guy, whoever he is, is all on his own.

Elliott jerked himself out of his reverie. He hadn't been "Four minutes to coast-in," Dave Luger announced.

sleeping-he couldn't really remember the last time he had.dbut he had been in some sort of daydream ever since descending to low level.

Now his eyes were locked onto the dim glow of the small Russian town they were approaching.

The tiny town, too small to have a name on Luger's generalpurpose navigation chart, appeared as a scattering of lights off in the distance. Just one small blob of lights, with a small string of lights trailing away-probably a lighted path down to the docks for the fishermen, or the main road in and out of town.

It wasn't the first Russian town he'd seen, but this one seemed different. Innocent. Peaceful. Moscow, the last time he was there as an Embassy adviser back in the seventies, was enacing. Even during the newlywed years of detente, he felt its choking, suffocating presence.

Here, over the cold rough pioneer-like badlands of eastern Siberia, it seemed different…

Elliott unconsciously gripped the yoke tighter. The sight of the long SST nose of the Old Dog reminded him where he was, what they were doing. He readjusted his microphone.

"Wendy?"

"Nothing, General," Wendy replied, nervously anticipating his query.

"Random, low-power VHE" Her voice was a clipped monotone.

"Distance to the coastal mountains, Dave?"

"General, I don't know for sure. My enroute chart doesn't show any detail of the Kamchatka peninsula. I'll need a few radar sweeps to range them out."ew Elliott considered that. He couldn't wait to get within the safety of the mountains, but still. — "All right-authorized But no more than a few seconds."

"Better let me take a look," McLanahan said, readjusting his attack radar controls. "I can look out eighty miles in fullscan, Dave's limited to thirty in a small cone."

"Do it," Elliott told him. "Dave, can you draw a picture of the terrain?Give yourself a little topographic map?"

Luger blocked out a section of his high-altitude chart and measured out a rough eighty-mile-range radar-scope diagram, then loosened his parachute and ejection seat straps and leaned over as far as possible to look at McLanahan's ten-inch display.

"Ready."

"Here we go. "McLanahan finished reconfiguring and pretuning his scope, then pressed the RADIATE button. The radar image of the eastern shore of the Kamchatka peninsula appeared-the first radar picture, McLanahan thought, from an American bomber about to make an attack on an installation of the Soviet Union.

Don't dwell on it, he told himself…

"Gently rising terrain in the next forty miles."

— graphing the scope presentation Luger was furiously shadow on his chart. "Navigation looks good-we're about thirty miles from the coast on radar, our heading looks good to avoid overflying that town. It should pass about two miles to our left.

High terrain starts in about thirty-seven miles, but so far nothing is above us. Some high stuff at sixty miles but still no big shadows." d, "that five thousand feet "Which means," Ormack said might be a safe altitude for us.

"Got all you need, Dave?" McLanahan asked.

Luger shook his head as he added some detail of some longrange peaks to his bastardized terrain chart. "Few more seconds he muttered.

McLanahan nodded and continued studying the scope.

"That town looks pretty big," he said over interphone as he studied the display, adjusting the video and receiver gain controls to eliminate the terrain returns, then turned to his partner. "Done with the long range, Dave?" Luger nodded.

"I'm checking that town in thirty-mile range. It looks funny."

He moved the range selector to thirty-mile range. The small town was now magnified in good detail at the top of his scope.

"Make it quick," Elliott warned.

"Funny?" Ormack asked. "How funny?"

"Funny as in bad news. Real bad news," McLanahan said.

He stared at the magnified scene for a few more sweeps, then quickly put his radar scope to STANDBY "General, we gotta turn. Now. At least twenty degrees right."

"Why… T' "Ships," McLanahan asked. "One dock full of big mother ships…"

"Search radar at twelve o'clock," Wendy sang out.

ddenly called Elliott shoved the eight throttles forward and banked the Megafortress hard to the right.

"Give me COLA on the clearance-plane setting, John," Elliott ordered.

Ormack reached across and turned the clearance plane knob down to its lowest setting. COLA-computer generated Lowest Altitude. Now the terrain-avoidance computer would select the lowest altitude possible for the Alegafortress based on a small error factor of the radar altimeter or terrain-avoidance computer, plus aircraft bank angle and terrain elevation.

The computer, starting at a COLA altitude of about a hundred feet, would then evaluate itself and readjust its minimum COLA altitude, continuously striving for the lowest Possible altitude. Since the Old Dog's terrain-avoidance computer was slaved only to the radar altimeter, the new lowest altitude would equate to the highest error tolerance of the radar altimeters scant thirty feet-plus a few feet for the normal rolling oscillations of any autopilot.

The huge bomber plunged its nose toward the inky blackness of the Russian Pacific, then slowly back to level as it quickly reached its commanded altitude. Now.nearly four hundred thousand pounds of man and machine, guided by a single thin radar beam from the bomber's belly, were skimming only a few dozen yards from the surface of the water at over four hundred miles an hour.

"Still only search radar," Wendy reported, leaning forward intently toward her TV-like threat display. "High power but still scan mode.

They're A chill worked its way up McLanahan's spine even before Wendy finished her analysis of the new signals being transmitted.

"New signal coming up," Wendy said suddenly. "Narrowcan search..

.

height-finder coming up… they've got us, General. They've found us, surface-to-air missile signals coming up Jeff Hampton's voice sounded strained and excited as the President picked up the telephone near his chair. "Say that again, Jeff?" the President said, rubbing interupted fitful sleep from his eyes. He massaged a knotted muscle in his neck and forced himself to concentrate.

"An Air Defense alert was called about fifteen minutes ago over the Kamchatka peninsula," Hampton repeated, gulping for air."in Russia."

"I know where the goddamned Kamchatka peninsula is, Jeff — Go on.

peared off their "An unidentified aircraft, Presumed to be American, disap radar. Real close-in. Violated airspace.

It… it had a call sign similar to… to the one General Elliott was using."

"Elliott?Brad Elliott?My God!"

"Not confirmed, sir, but-" "I'll be right down. Alert General Curtis.

Have him meet me in the Situation Room on the double."

The President hurried out of the parlor, quickly dressed and went downstairs.

Brad Elliott, you old devil… You got in. You son of a bitch-you made' it in.

Wendy could only focus on the video threat display. Millions of watts of energy, directed along specific frequency and power ranges, were at her command, yet she stared transfixed at two erratic waves along one line of that threat display. Her hands were flat on her thighs, palms down, despite the Old Dog's steep bank turn which usually made her grab onto her ejection seat armrests.

The audio pickup of the two radars was hypnotizing. The first radar emitted a scratchy bleeping sound, like a seal's bark.

It had begun as an intermittent signal but was now coming over twice as fast-India-band narrow- scan search radar, aimed directly at them. The second radar gave off a higher-pitched squeal, like a rusty hinge. It signaled the presence of a Golfband height-finder, supplying altitude information to a surface to-air missile's guidance computer.

The computer-controlled threat analyzer apparently couldn't make up its mind-it was switching its analysis symbol from "2" to " 3, " indicating S.A-2 or S.A-3 strategic missiles, which were usually designed for high-altitude penetrators. The missiles….. they called them "telephone poles" in Vietnam….. were barely capable against low-altitude penetrators-but the Old Dog was well within the missile's lethal range.

"All radars in standby," Luger announced, double-checking both his and McLanahan's controls. He blinked in surprise at his pressure altimeter-it read minus sixty feet. He checked the radar altimeter readout on McLanahan's video screen and saw that it was pegged at a hundred feet. One hundred fee0 If the COLA computer didn't compensate property, at this altitude with only twenty degrees of bank they'd drag a wingtip in the water.

With an unsteady hand he reset the Kollsmann window on his pressure altimeter until it read a hundred feet. He could almost see the water skimming below him at over six hundred "I feet a second. He could do nothing else but monitor the instruments, watch and wait.

"Wendy?

"Yes?"

"Wendy," McLanahan shouted over the intercom.

"Wendy.

Answer me."

"Patrick, I voice. She opened her eyes, took a deep breath, again of the threat analyzer in front of her.

"Steady tracking and surveillance signals," she reported, her voice stronger. "Tracking us, but no guidance or uplink."

Elliott watched the tiny blob of lights in the distance.

Suddenly he saw a small shaft of light flare brightly, erupting from the outskirts of the town.

"Missile launch!S.A-2!"from Wendy.

"I've got it, I can see it," Elliott said.

"I've got the uplink shut down. "Wendy carefully adjusted "J the jammer's frequencies, as if she were adjusting the focus on a microscope. She glanced up at her radar altimeter repeater.

"How does it look?"

"It's heading right for us," Ormack said.

"Make a hard turn into it," Wendy ordered.

"Into it?That will-" "Do it, General," Wendy said over the interphone. The Old Dog rolled into a steep bank to the left.

"I can still see it… wait. "Elliott's voice was suddenly less strained. "I can see the whole tail of the missile… it's gone.

It went behind us "Come back to the right, maximum bank, military thrust," Wendy said. Elliott immediately did it.

"S.A-2 signal coming back up," Wendy said suddenly. Her hands flew over the High-speed Anti-Radiation Missile control panel. "Anti-radar missile one programmed and ready for launch.

Angelina checked her switches, watching her indicators as a map HARM missile on the aft bomb bay's rotating launcher was pulled into the lower launch position. "Ready."

Wendy hit the LAUNCH button. The fibersteel bomb-bay doors swung open, and the first HARM missile was ejected She closed her eyes, focusing on his became aware X into the slipstream. The launcher automatically rotated another HARM into launch position.

ported. "S.A-2

"HARM has a good lock-on," Wendy re -2 missile alert… HARM still locked on… S.A solid missile alert. "Suddenly both the MISSILE ALERT threat signal and the HARM missile's lock-on status indication blinked off.

"S.A-2 radar down," Wendy said, her breath coming back.

Angelina sat back in her seat, her body relaxing. "They've the threat audio from her receivers. "No other missile tracking switched back to wide-area search," Wendy said, monitoring signals. They've lost us.

The town was passing out of view. Elliott watched the distant lights, now almost obscured by the horizon so close beneath them, as it slid past the left cockpit windows.

"Good shooting, people. "He didn't say "ladies. "There Elliott told were no "ladies" aboard. "Call up the next point, the navigators. "I don't want to head back to the same point. If they look for us, they'll plot our track and find us along that path. "McLanahan punched instructions into the computer, the bomber made a slight turn back to the left. A few minutes later Luger announced they were crossing the coast.

ack there?"

"Hey, Tork. What the hell were you doing but Ormack said.

Wendy was waiting for him.

"Colonel Ormack," Wendy said, "the next time I give an evasion command, I don't want it second-guessed. An S.A leaves the rails three times faster than any speed this plane could hope to reach. At our range it gives us only a few seconds to react. Our best defense is to acquire the missile visually. Once we see it, our chances of evading it go way up if you're unsure of the right defensive maneuvers it would be best to keep quiet and do as you're told. "Ormack closed his mouth.

She was right.

"Crew, that was only "He got the message," Elliott said.

the first test. There'll be a lot more before we're through with this.

Dave, how long until Kavaznya?"

Luger looked at his chart. "I'd say we'll be overlying it in forty minutes, General."

Forty minutes. The thought was like a damp chill permeating the' pressurized interior of the Old Dog.