Tiger's Claw

ANDERSEN AIR FORCE BASE

THAT SAME TIME

In the cockpit, Bradley switched the auxiliary power unit control switches to “RUN” and the battery switch to “ALERT,” then hopped into his seat and began strapping in. Down below, Patrick hit the “ALERT START” button on the alert control panel on the nose gear door, which immediately started both auxiliary power units and would initiate the engine start sequence on all four engines, then raced up the entry ladder. As he did a crew chief arrived, pulled the wheel chocks, and quickly checked for streamers, open access panels, or other ground maintenance safety items. Planes were taking off from runway two-four left and right—the night air was thick with the smell of jet exhaust, and the noise was deafening.

The crew chief donned his intercom headset. “Crew chief is up, sir!” he said. “Chocks are pulled! Bomb bay doors and all four engines are clear!”

“Roger,” Brad replied. “Bomb bay doors coming closed!” and he hit the switches to close all three sets of bomb bay doors. Meanwhile Patrick entered the cockpit and hurriedly strapped in.

“I’m up,” Patrick reported.

“APUs are started, engine start sequence under way, bomb bay doors are closed, and chocks are pulled,” Brad said. “I’m strapped in and my seat is hot.”

“Same here,” Patrick said. They both monitored the engine start, looking for any sharp upward spikes of engine temperatures that might indicate a hot start. As soon as all four engine temperatures stabilized Patrick radioed, “Cleared off, chief! Clear the taxiway.”

“Crew chief clearing off. Good luck, sir.” Patrick hit the taxi lights and pushed in power, and the Excalibur was on the move. He could see the crew chief with his fluorescent orange batons guiding him out onto the ramp—Patrick and Brad were by far the first ones out of the parking area.

Brad made sure the radios were configured. “Andersen tower, Masters Zero-Three,” Patrick spoke, “taxiing from the shelters, request immediate takeoff clearance.” Brad’s hands continue to fly around the cockpit, making sure switches were properly configured for takeoff.

“Masters Zero-Three, Andersen tower, winds two-seven zero at eleven, cleared for takeoff, any runway.”

“We’ll take two-four left,” Patrick said—their shelters were right at the end of runway two-four left, so it was a short taxi. On intercom he asked, “How am I looking, Brad?”

“I think I got everything, Dad,” Brad said, “but check it first!”

“Not enough time,” Patrick said. “Wing sweep, flaps, and slats are set—we’re going. Anything we missed we’ll take care of in the air.” At the end of the runway he made sure the flight controls were clear, checked around the cockpit quickly for anything obvious he could have missed, then smoothly pushed the throttles up to military power, checked the nozzle swing, pushed it up into zone one afterburner, checked gauges again, then into zone five. The Excalibur surged down the runway like a cheetah in full pursuit, and it leaped into the sky.

Patrick raised the landing gear, retracted flaps and slats, then swept the wings back to cruise climb settings. “After takeoff checklist, Brad,” he said, and Brad immediately called up the proper page on one of his MFDs and made sure the computer had checked off each item in sequence.

“Checklist complete,” Brad announced.

“Thank you,” Patrick said. “Call up the northern emergency evacuation anchor—we’ll wait there and join up with everyone else once they make it off.”

“Roger.” Brad quickly recalled and loaded the proper waypoints. Guam used several emergency orbits, called anchors, for everything from runway closures to typhoon evacuations. The northern anchor was twenty miles south of the island of Tinian; Tinian International Airport had a concrete and asphalt runway long and strong enough to land XB-1s. Saipan International Airport a few miles north of Tinian had a runway just as long as Tinian’s, but it was made of asphalt only and would not support even a lightly loaded XB-1.

“Switch number one radio to the command post.”

“Roger,” Brad said.

“Control, Master Zero-Three.”

“Zero-Three, Control,” the senior controller replied. “Read you three-by.”

“You are weak and barely readable,” Patrick said.

“We’re on portable radios—power on most of the base is still down,” a new voice that sounded like Colonel Warner “Cutlass” Cuthbert said. “I need you to stay within five miles of Andersen so we can stay in contact.”

“Wilco,” Patrick said. “Are you in contact with the Patriot missile batteries?” There were four Patriot antiaircraft missile batteries nearby: three on Guam itself in the northern part of the island, one on the base, and one in the south, plus one battery on Tinian.

“The Patriots are up and self-contained, and they have your Mode Twos,” Cutlass responded. The Mode Two was a coded transponder used to identify individual military aircraft.

“How many made it off?”

“The alert birds all made it—one B-1B, one B-52H, one B-2A, three XB-1s, two F-22s, two F-15s, and three KC-135 and one KC-10 tankers,” Cutlass said. “I put them in an orbit northwest of FISON intersection at ten thousand feet. We don’t have Center radar operating, so we’re trying to deconflict all the planes down here on paper and with the Patriot surveillance system.”

“How many more made it?” Patrick asked.

“None of the other B-52s are going to make it within the next thirty minutes,” Cutlass said. “We might get most of the XB-1s and B-1Bs off in thirty minutes, but that’ll be cutting it close. General, I’m going to put you up at twenty-five thousand feet right over the runway, and I’ll have you do a racetrack facing the west. I’ll keep the fighters with the alert bombers until someone spots something, and then I hope we can chase them down. Hopefully you can spot the H-6s or whatever they throw at us. We’re getting Wells and Wickham into the remote systems operator’s trailer to operate your weapons.”

“Copy that,” Patrick said. He applied climb power and began a steep ascent to his new patrol altitude. On intercom he said, “Okay, Brad, let’s fire up the radar and find those bastards.” Patrick set up a triangular search pattern over the central part of the island so there was only one leg that the XB-1’s AESA radar would not be looking west.

“Hoffman and Eddington are airborne in One-Four,” Cutlass said. “They’re going to be at twenty-one thousand feet, flying an opposite pattern as you so we always have at least one radar aimed westward.”

“Copy that,” Patrick said. Brad had called up a “God’s-eye” view of the area around them on one of the center MFDs, and they could see all the planes orbiting around the island. The Joint Tactical Information Distribution System combined radar data from all the aircraft and from the Patriot radar into one, so Patrick and Brad could “see” the other planes even though they might not be directly scanning them with their own radar.

Just a few minutes later they saw an extremely fast target moving in from the west. “I see something!” Brad shouted. “Moving fast, descending, heading right for us!”

“Give me a heading of two-niner-zero, Patrick,” George Wickham, the remote offensive systems officer said. “Solid lock. Weapons coming hot, I’m warming up your AMRAAMs. Masters One-Four, take heading three-zero-zero, your weapons are coming hot too, stand by. Cougar Seven flight of two and Buffalo Two-Five flight of two, inbound high-speed bandits at your seven o’clock high, see if you can spot them.”

Patrick had just barely completed the turn to the northwest when the forward bomb bay doors opened, and two missiles on streaks of fire blasted off into the night sky a few seconds apart, followed by two more several seconds later. They could see other streaks of fire from below them too as Hoffman and Eddington’s missiles went off in search of targets. The AESA radar data from the two XB-1s was being fed to the fire control computers of the F-22 Raptors and F-15 Eagles, helping their missiles to lock onto targets that were behind them, and seconds later their missiles were in the air as well, tracing huge arcs through the night sky as they turned to pursue their quarry.

In less than thirty seconds, it was over—no more Chinese cruise missiles were detected and no more AMRAAM missiles were commanded to launch, and the forward bomb bay doors closed. “What happened?” Brad asked. “Did we get them?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick said. He keyed the microphone button: “Control, Masters Zero-Three, how copy?” No response. “Zero-Three remote, Masters Zero-Three, Wick, how do you hear?” Still nothing. “This is not good.”

“Maybe we’re out of range,” Brad suggested.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Patrick said. “One-Four, this is Zero-Three,” he radioed on the secure command channel. “Any contact from Cutlass?”

“Negative, Zero-Three,” Tom Hoffman responded. “Nothing from the Patriot engagement control centers either.”

“I’m going to fly over the base and take a look with the Sniper pod,” Patrick said.

“Roger. We’ll stay up here.”

The entire island looked completely dark. Patrick could see a few lights on the base, but it too was mostly dark. He descended to a thousand feet aboveground, mindful of Mount Santa Rosa, Mount Barrigada, and other high hills and obstructions around the base, slowed to approach speed, sweeping the wings forward and lowering flaps and slats to get a good look.

“One-Four, this is Zero-Three, I see several impact points,” Patrick reported. Brad seemed to be frozen in his ejection seat as he watched the horrific Sniper pod images on his multifunction display. “Looks like direct hits on the command center, several on the aircraft parking ramp, fuel farm, and transformer farm. Several aircraft on fire. One crater down about five thousand feet on runway two-four left, but it’s off to the side between the runway and taxiway and I think it’s passable or avoidable. Runway two-four right took a couple hits—I think it’s out of commission.”

“Bastards,” Hoffman responded.

On the secure command channel McLanahan spoke: “Break. Task Force Leopard, this is Masters Zero-Three, how copy?”

“Loud and clear, sir,” replied Lieutenant Colonel Franklin “Wishbone” McBride, the most senior member of the alert birds and task force commander, flying as aircraft commander aboard the B-2A Spirit stealth bomber.

“Did you contact PACAF yet, Wishbone?”

“Negative,” McBride said. “I wanted to get all the alert birds in their orbits and settled down, and then I was going to send a B-1 to look over the runway which you’ve already done, get everybody back on the ground, then ask for instructions. We copied your report about the base, and we could see your Sniper video over JTIDS. Looks like we can still use runway two-four left okay.”

“What are you talking about, Wishbone?” Patrick asked. “We’ve got missions to fly. I’m down to just Sidewinders for air-to-air, but we’ve still got JASSMs and HARMs. Let’s get on it. We’re wasting fuel.”

“What missions, McLanahan?” McBride asked, forgetting to address the retired general with more respect. “I was there when Cutlass explained it to you: the missions on our computers are not real.”

“Cutlass is probably dead, McBride,” Patrick said. “Is that real enough for you? I looked at some of those targets—they looked real enough to me, and when a SAM comes up we’ll be shooting at the real thing.”

“You’re insane, McLanahan!” McBride exclaimed. “You can’t fly that jet all the way to China and back! It’s illegal! You have no authorization! Those planes don’t belong to you!”

“You’re wrong there, McBride—they do belong to me,” Patrick said. “The Air Force just rents them from me. And I’ve never been told by the Air Force that our missions aren’t real. Are you going to fly the strike mission or not, McBride?”

“There are no strike missions, McLanahan!” McBride cried. “Don’t you get it? It’s all for show. Now get off the radios and let me coordinate getting our asses back on the ground!”

“Call up the strike plan, Brad,” Patrick said on intercom. Brad had it loaded in seconds. “Masters aircraft, head for ARCP number one. Check in.” The ARCP, or Air Refueling Control Point, was common to all the strike plans for all aircraft.

“Zero-Five copies,” Ed Gleason responded.

“Zero-Nine, wilco,” Sondra Eddington replied.

“One-One, roger,” replied Sam Jacobs, one of the young nonex-military pilots hired by Sky Masters for the Excalibur project.

“One-Four, roger,” Tom Hoffman replied.

“What in hell do you think you’re doing?” McBride exclaimed. He obviously saw the XB-1s leaving their assigned parking orbits on his JTIDS display. “Get back in your damned anchors, now!”

“Masters flight, switch to KBAM Uniform,” Patrick ordered.

“Two.”

“Three.”

“Four.”

“Five.”

“Punch in Battle Mountain’s UHF tower freq for me, Brad,” Patrick said.

“Done.”

“Masters flight, check.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

“Four.”

“Five.” Everyone had figured out what Patrick had in mind.

“Why’d you do that, Dad?” Brad asked.

“Because I knew all the Battle Mountain guys would know the frequency, but I’m betting the Air Force guys won’t,” Patrick explained. “I don’t want to listen to McBride yelling at us.”

“So we’re going to bomb China, Dad?”

“Unless you don’t want to do this, Brad,” Patrick said. “I didn’t have any time to ask you. Like you said, you came along just to do an evacuation, not a combat mission. I don’t even know if you know how to work the offensive systems—we won’t have the remote systems operators working with us.”

“I think I can work it.”

Patrick looked over at his son. “Are you okay with all this, Brad?”

“I think so, Dad,” Brad said in a low voice. “I mean, I want to be there for you, and if I say no you’d have to turn around, land, and find somebody else to go—or maybe they wouldn’t let you take off again. I’m . . . I’m just . . .”

“What, son?”

“I’m just afraid if I chicken out,” Brad said. “I mean, I’ve never been in combat before except in the Cybernetic Infantry Device, and that thing kicks butt so bad it’s really not fair to call it combat.” The Cybernetic Infantry Device was a manned robot that gave its pilot incredible strength, speed, vision, and attack capabilities, akin to an entire armored infantry platoon; Brad had been checked out in it and had gotten to use it to ambush and capture terrorists who were out to kill his father. “I’m just worried I’ll wimp out on you.”

“Everyone is worried about that, Brad, no matter how experienced you are,” Patrick said.

“Even you, Dad?”

“Of course,” Patrick admitted. “I’m leading my son and four other crews and four other bombers into battle against the largest army and the fourth-largest air force in the world. You don’t think I’m scared of that? But I think of what we saw back at Andersen Air Force Base, and I think of what the Chinese did and what they’ve done in the past, and I know I need to do something.” Brad fell silent. Patrick keyed the mic button: “Masters flight, I know you might think this is loco. If you don’t want to risk it, you can head back to Andersen with the others.”

“We’re not leaving, General,” Ed Gleason said. “We’re lucky we weren’t on the ground when those bastards hit us. I’m not going back without a little payback.”

“Three,” Sondra radioed.

“Four,” said Jacobs.

“Five,” Hoffman replied. “Goes double for me.”

“Thanks, guys,” Patrick said. He looked at the flight plan. “I’ve got one hour and twenty minutes to the start-countermeasures point. Check over your equipment and weapons and let me know any problems, and study your targets and threats and let’s talk about it. And thanks again for leaning into this with me.”