Hypersonic Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (17 page)

V. R. went over his briefing notes. It was a two-part mission, with the first part being fairly simple. He was to take off, fly to the nearby bombing range, and after being cleared in, make a practice bomb run and then a real run. He would be dropping the newest version of the Paveway III laser-guided bomb. The bomb had a small marking charge in it, and they would be checking the accuracy of his drop, but that was not the test’s primary purpose, which was to see how much the quick opening missile bay doors increased the airplane’s radar signature.

The drop made the flight something of a family affair. Bob Rodriquez had developed the Paveway III laser system when he was still part of the Shannon organization. His dad’s friend, Steve O’Malley, had been a principal proponent of the F-16, and his uncle Harry had selected the F-16s fly-by-wire system as an “off-the-shelf” item for the black jet. V. R. had participated in both the Have Blue and FSD portions of the test.

The second part of the flight was more critical. Another “black” project was testing the effectiveness of Soviet fighters against the F-117. After the bomb drop, he would be “attacked” by a MiG-23, captured months ago by the Israelis and now flown by an expert USAF
pilot from the aggressor squadron at Nellis. The F-117A was not really a dogfighter, and the probability of it entering combat carrying an air-to-air missile was slight, given its value as a stealth attack airplane. Still, for this mission, they had simulated a combat load of a Sidewinder heat seeking missile for the dogfight sequence. Given the MiG-23’s superior speed and maneuverability, it wasn’t going to be much of a fight.

As V. R. waited for takeoff clearance he ran his eyes over the crowded instrument panel, reflecting that the drop in temperature here was not nearly as bad as the drop in temperature at home. Ginny was furious with him. Instead of getting an assignment as a flight instructor at Nellis as he had promised, he had opted to stay with the stealth program. Offered a pilot’s position in the 4450th Tactical Group, a highly classified new unit scheduled to receive the production F-117As for operational use, Shannon had agreed, knowing that he was reneging on a promise to Ginny to get a more conventional job with more conventional hours.

He had handled it badly. He never should have promised to look for a “conventional job,” not that many flying jobs in the Air Force were conventional, anyway. But this way he had gone back on his word, disappointing her. It was a dumb thing to do, but he had no choice. He had to fly this airplane, in combat, and help prove what he’d been working on for so long.

As he did so often lately, he’d gone to his father for advice. “Dad, I don’t want to put you on the spot, but I know that you and Mom had a lot of problems concerning your flying. It looks like I’m getting into the same boat, with Ginny.”

He went on to explain the situation, telling him that he had to make up his mind within the week, or he couldn’t volunteer for the 4450th.

Tom Shannon stood up, walked around his desk, and put his arm around V. R.’s shoulders.

“Son, I made a lot of mistakes in my life and the worst two were volunteering to go back to combat in Korea and then in Vietnam. Both times I bitterly disappointed your mother. She never had any idea about how I felt about it; she just considered me to be another crazy flyer like my dad. Now Harry, he’s different. He sacrificed flying for Anna. He’s a better man than I am.”

As his father paused, V. R.’s stomach contracted. He was going to get exactly what he didn’t want: advice to pass on flying the stealth fighter, and going along with Ginny’s wishes.

“But I’ll tell you, Son, you’ve got to do what your gut tells you. I think your gut is telling you to say no to Ginny and yes to the stealth fighter. And if I’m right about that, that’s what I’m telling you, too. There’s an old western movie cliché, where the hero says, ‘A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.’ But corny as it sounds, it’s exactly right. It’s your life, and if you’ve got that damn fighter pilot bug in you, you have to do what it tells you. I think Ginny will stick with you. She loves you.”

It was exactly what V. R. wanted to hear, and confirmed his decision. All he had to do now was convince Ginny it wasn’t the end of the world.

He knew she had a point. It was tough for her to spend all week in Las Vegas, waiting for him to come home. And it was dull for him, too. Except for the flying, life at Tonopah was excruciatingly boring. Monday through Friday was spent in studying the aircraft and preparing for test flights. If they were lucky, they’d log some daytime flying in a Vought A-7. Most of the time they spent skulking indoors, trying to absorb as much knowledge as they could about the complex systems that governed the aircraft. Then on Friday night they flew home to Nellis, 140 miles to the southeast, in a Key Air Boeing 737, coming back early Monday morning. On the way from Tonopah to Nellis, they labeled the 737 “the honeymoon express”; on the way back, Nellis–Tonopah, it was “hangover special.”

The tower called, “Scorpion 3, cleared for take off.”

Shannon advanced the throttles swiftly, and the black jet rushed forward, its strange triangular shape not unlike a huge paper glider. During the initial takeoff roll it felt more like a sports car accelerating than an aircraft taking off. Once airborne, a cartridge plugged into his AP-102 computer flew it to its destination far better than he or any other pilot could have done, picking the optimum route considering terrain, wind, defenses, everything. It made him feel a little superfluous, but his hands never left the controls at any time.

As the F-117A lifted off he gave a quick sigh of relief. Less than two weeks before, Bob Riedenauer, a Lockheed test pilot, had crashed on takeoff. The aircraft had rolled inverted, hit the runway, and then slid backward for hundreds of feet, all because the flight control wires had been installed in reverse. It had been going on since the beginning of flight—where they used to attach the aileron or elevator cables backward, now they had found a way to foul-up electronically.

The two GE F404 engines sang sweetly, putting out their eleven
thousand pounds of thrust as he climbed swiftly to twenty thousand feet, before leveling off. V. R. monitored the progress on the moving-map display, his hands still resting lightly on the stick. The F-117A followed its preprogrammed path, integrating the information from the navigation and flight management system, changing altitude and airspeed as necessary to put him over his entry point at exactly the right moment.

Shannon went through the routine calls for entrance to the bombing range as the program set up his pattern. He was joined by an A-7 chase plane, there to photograph the Paveway III’s separation from the aircraft. On the ground, half a dozen different systems would monitor the change in the F-117A’s radar signature when the missile bay doors snapped open and shut.

The controller on the bomb range cleared him to drop and the A-7 moved into position, to the rear, and slightly below his altitude.

V. R. monitored the system as the target became the next waypoint for the computer. He waited, watching his Infra-Red Acquisition and Detection System—IRADS-crosshairs position themselves over the target. Two infrared sensors—the Forward Looking Infra-Red (FLIR) and the Downward Looking Infra Red (DLIR)—put the target’s image on his central cockpit TV display.

The two infrared units were the only equipment on the aircraft that were not passive, so they had to be carefully controlled, and used only for a minimum amount of time. If not, the enemy defenses could track back to the aircraft. V. R. used the forward-looking set to acquire the target; as he drew closer, it was automatically handed off to the DLIR. All V. R. had to do was keep the crosshairs on the target, making minor adjustments as needed via a small button on the throttle.

He watched the crosshairs closely, checking his altitude and airspeed, and selecting “ARM” on the master arming switch. His aircraft’s laser designator lit the target and the DLIR picked up the reflected signal. V. R. felt the missile bay doors snap open and shut as the Paveway III dropped. His laser designator illuminated the target with a laser spot about eighteen inches in diameter, and the Paveway sought it, correcting for wind all the way right down to impact on the target, a much mangled Soviet T-72 tank carcass.

It used to be rare when the bomb range controller called back “Shack,” meaning a direct hit. Now it was rare when he did not. But the missile’s accuracy was not at question so much as the radar signature
when the missile bay doors opened. V. R. wouldn’t know those results until he returned.

The A-7 pulled away just as the MiG-23 came into view, closing at twelve hundred knots. The range controller came back on saying “Fight’s on” as the two fighters passed each other, then arced into turns, the MiG climbing, the F-117A holding its turn, slowing down. V. R. knew he couldn’t outspeed the MiG, so he tried to get both their airspeeds down where the F-117A wouldn’t be at so much of a disadvantage.

The MiG hurtled down past him, V. R. peeling to the right just as the aggressor pilot was about to fire. The F-117A, surprisingly agile given its total disregard for aerodynamics, decelerated further, dropping down to two hundred knots, as V. R. made another tight 360-degree turn.

As the MiG shot by, climbing for another pass, V. R. skidded the F-117A to the right, jammed his throttles forward, and lifted his nose for a snap shot with his Sidewinder. To his surprise, the virtual image of the missile reached out and hit the MiG-23’s symbol just as ground control called, “That’s a kill, Scorpion 3. Fight’s over.”

The MiG pilot’s voice came up, obviously disgruntled but trying to hide it.

“Good shot, V. R.; I let you off easy this time.”

Surprised at the turn of events, Shannon peeled away for the landing back at Tonopah. Everything had worked well this time, but it was all virtual combat, no one was really shooting at him. He knew that if there was a next time, the MiG-23 would play it differently, and he’d never get a lucky shot like that in again.

But it was really unimportant. The F-117A wasn’t a dogfighter and never would be. It was a bomber, designed to go in unseen. And here the F-117A was invisible to the local radars, but who knew what the enemy was developing? The whole stealth thing had started from a Russian scientist’s paper. It was hard to believe that they wouldn’t have a countermeasure up their sleeve. And if the missile doors revealed its presence, it was only stealthy part of the time. Just one exposure might be enough to give an alert enemy a shot with a barrage of SAMs.

Ah, that was in the future. In the meantime, he had his own little war going on with Ginny.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE PASSING PARADE
: Palestine Liberation Organization agrees to withdraw forces from Lebanon; Henry Fonda dies at age 77; U.S. banks lower prime interest rate from 17 to 11.5 percent; Pete Rose sets an at-bat record of 12,365 surpassing Hank Aaron’s previous record; China pledges to seek reunification with Taiwan by peaceful means; Ingrid Bergman dies at age 67;
Hill Street Blues
wins six Emmys; Epcot Center opens; John DeLorean arrested for possession of cocaine; Dow Jones industrial average continues climb; Great Britain defeats Argentina in Falklands War; Leonid Brezhnev dies; Vietnam Veterans’ War Memorial dedicated; Cosmonauts Berezovoy and Lebedev land safely after a record 211 days in space.

October 9, 1982
Palos Verdes, California

A
lways the philosopher in the family, Harry Shannon put his hands behind his head and stretched out on the long, low leather couch in the familiar library of his father’s Palos Verdes house. Tom was at the desk, working, valiantly trying to balance his checkbook, and V. R. was due to arrive any minute.

It would have made financial sense to sell the house—the market was booming, but sentiment prevailed and all the Shannons used it as a neutral spot where they could discuss business away from the office environment. It was also a guest house for V. R. and Ginny, and for so many of their friends who dropped by that the neighbors
jokingly—or maybe not so jokingly—suggested that they take out a hotel license.

It pleased Harry how the tenor of their meetings had changed so completely in the last year. Tom, now fully engaged in running Vance Shannon, Incorporated, was still savoring his triumph over Rodriquez. He had emerged from the shadow of his harsh treatment in Hanoi to be exactly like he had been in his youth: eager, energetic, and always combative. Nancy had accomplished an almost equally miraculous transformation, going from the hard-hitting—if often wrong—chief executive officer to a supportive role as Tom’s administrative assistant, doing his bidding, offering advice only when asked, and all without rancor. She seemed genuinely pleased to have given up the hard decision making, and was basking in both Tom’s recovery and his sincere appreciation for what she did.

Harry mused to himself,
Nobody would believe it in a soap opera or a movie. She went from top dog in a tough business to loving, supporting wife in a matter of days.

Nancy’s ill-advised handling of the business was still too sensitive for conversation, however; no one ever mentioned it in her presence, and even when, as they inevitably did, things came up on the real estate fiasco she’d become embroiled in, Tom and Harry kept it as quiet as possible, always trying to shield her from further embarrassment.

There was an equally large change in V. R.’s behavior, and in the way he was treated. Tom loved him fiercely, of course, but up until about a year ago, he had looked upon him as his son, highly successful, but his son still. As proud as Tom was of V. R., it simply had not occurred to him to treat him any differently than he had in the past as a pleased, proud father.

The change came not because of V. R.’s meteoric rise in rank—he was being promoted regularly in advance of his Academy colleagues. Instead it came as Tom was cleared to learn more about the important work V. R. was doing with the latest plane in the Air Force arsenal, the top secret “black jet,” the Lockheed F-117A. Thanks to Steve O’Malley’s influence, V. R. had been in on the stealth program almost from the start, and few of the other pilots flying the operational aircraft had the depth of engineering background that he did. Consequently, he was called on to work with Lockheed’s Skunk Works and even with
Vance Shannon, Incorporated, on some of the tougher problems being encountered.