Shadow Flight (1990) (3 page)

The numeric code that Simmons had dialed into his transponder, if energized by pushing the circuit breaker back into place, would automatically trigger alarms in ground-based radar facilities. Code 7700 indicated an emergency condition.

STRATEGIC AIR COMMAND HEADQUARTERS Offutt Air Force Base, Nebraska

General Carlton W. Donovan, SAC commander, listened intently as he watched the time/event display tracking the "expected" positions of Shadow 37 and Ghost 25. The same information was being observed in the National Military Command Post at the Pentagon in Washington, D
. C
.

Only General Donovan, his immediate staff, and the bomber crews knew the course that would be flown to their respective targets. The only knowns were the two simulated targets, along with the fact that the bombers would return to Ellsworth Air Force Base, South Dakota, without refueling.

The classified operation was an emergency war order exercise to test the airborne crews against alerted ground and air defenses. Canadian and U
. S
. teams on board two AWACS aircraft would attempt to track the elusive bombers, while ground surveillance centers focused on detecting the intruders.

The mission would evaluate the long-range, low-level capability of the new Stealth B-2 against state-of-the-art bistatic radar installations. The highly classified radar units used transmitters and receivers placed in different locations. Four separate radar sites would try to foil the Stealth's ability to deflect their radar waves. Shadow 37's smooth, flowing shape did not have sharp edges or vertical surfaces for radar waves to bounce off. The B-2 had already proved capable of absorbing other types of radar beams in the composite wings and fuselage.

Donovan, a tall, lithe, white-haired man of fifty-seven, looked at his display board, which clearly defined the route of each bomber.

The two courses had been selected from a number of restricted training routes. Shadow 37 was marked in dark blue, Ghost 25 in bright orange. Both dotted lines commenced their irregular courses over the Attawapiskat River, seven miles east of Lansdowne House, the point where the two bombers separated.

Shadow flight followed a path north to Winisk Lake, Ontario Province, then northeast to the southern tip of Belcher Islands in Hudson Bay. From there, the Stealth bomber would turn west, descend to 400 feet above the bay, and traverse 255 nautical miles of open water. The simulated target was Fort Severn, Ontario.

After the strike, Shadow flight would fly a direct course south to Duluth, Minnesota, then southwest to Ellsworth Air Force Base, where the classified bomber would land. After refueling, the B-2 crew would depart immediately for their permanent home, Whiteman Air Force Base, Knob Noster, Missouri. Shadow 37 was the second Stealth bomber assigned to the base. Whiteman had been scheduled to have a complement of twelve B-2s.

Ghost flight would fly an irregular, low-level course west of the Stealth, strike a simulated target in Manitoba Province, then recover at Ellsworth. The 337th Bombardment Squadron B-1B would also refuel, then fly home to Dyess Air Force Base, Texas.

"Well, Walt," Donovan said with a pleasant smile, "we'll see if your boys are on their toes this evening."

The four-star general enjoyed working with the scrappy Canadian fighter pilot and longtime friend Maj. Gen. Stirling Walter Bothwell, Royal Canadian Air Force.

"We'll bi-god give 'er a go," Bothwell shot back, chewing on an unlit cigar. "May be a bit dicey, general."

Both officers were positioned in the rear of the SAC control center on an elevated platform. Each had a commanding view of the continuously changing tracking graphics on the brightly lighted display board.

"If Shadow flight is on time," General Donovan said with a serious look on his face, "they should be turning west over Belcher Islands. This leg will be interesting."

SHADOW 37

The Stealth flying wing, with its dull charcoal finish, rolled out of the steep left turn and started a descent toward the pitch-black waters of Hudson Bay. Shadow 37, half the size of the Rockwell International B-1B, would be difficult to spot under any conditions except broad daylight. It would be virtually impossible to locate close to the surface of the bay.

The secret bomber, only slightly longer than an F-15 Eagle fighter, measured 69 feet from nose to tail. The smoothly contoured flying wing stretched 172 feet from wing tip to wing tip. The Stealth's wingspan, almost equivalent to that of a B-52 Stratofortress, contributed to its awkward appearance.

Matthews and Evans, using their eight multipurpose displays, continually cross-checked their altimeter readouts with the radio altimeter. Both pilots felt a series of bumps as the bomber flew through a low-lying cloud deck. The soft, bluish white cockpit lights cast a faint glow on the "glass" instrument panel.

Shadow 37 had been equipped with EICAS (engine instrument and crew alerting system), the final link to the "all-glass" cockpit. The synoptic displays monitored engine, electric, hydraulic, fuel, air-conditioning, pressurization, pneumatic, and other ancillary systems. The glass tubes, when called upon, or during an anomaly, also projected aircraft systems diagrams resembling the illustrations in the flight manual. If the B-2 experienced a ground or an airborne emergency, the color-coded electronic displays would come to life with motion.

Matthews checked the operating parameters of the four powerful General Electric engines. Fuel flow, rpms, temperature. All in the green.

The four nonafterburning engines, each producing 19,000 pounds of thrust, had been designed to use a fuel additive and cold-air baffle system to eliminate contrails. The highly visible white contrails would give away the bomber's position to the human eye. The exhaust outlets, filtering through V-shaped ceramic tiles similar to those on the space shuttles, were on top of the smooth wings.

"Four thousand feet to level-off," Evans reminded the command pilot.

"Okay," Matthews replied, easing the B-2's nose up three degrees. "I'm starting the level-off. Watch our altitude."

"Roger," Evans replied, scanning the various instrument displays.

Larry Simmons watched the altimeter unwind through 3,900 feet, then removed his flying gloves and wiped his perspiring palms on his thighs. He reached over to the panel at his shoulder and pushed in the circuit breaker to the temporary transponder. He left it activated for seven seconds, then pulled it out. The tech-rep then placed a retainer around the circuit breaker, as he had the other transponder breakers, to prevent it from being shoved in accidentally.

"Thousand to go, Chuck," Evans said, following the routine descent checklist. The copilot monitored closely all phases of the flight.

"Check," Matthews replied quietly, slowly raising the nose of the B-2 as he moved the throttles forward gently. "Four hundred feet . . . we're level."

The acceleration produced from 76,000 pounds of thrust pressed the crew into their seats as the bomber accelerated to 460 knots.

"Terrain avoidance verified," Evans reported, referring to the highly sophisticated terrain anticollision radar system.

The radar screen cast a dim glow on the faces of the pilots. Evans switched the scale to three nautical miles, scanning the instrument intently, looking for any obstacle in their path of flight. Shadow 37 was now traveling over the bay at almost eight nautical miles a minute.

The strategic bomber had been designed to be subsonic to avoid detection from the supersonic "footprint." The mission of the B-2, whether flying a high-altitude profile or hugging the deck, was to penetrate the target area unnoticed.

Matthews darted a look at the electro-optical display, then concentrated intently on the terrain-avoidance system flying the speeding bomber. He did not trust the terrain-hugging system this close to the surface, especially at night.

Matthews had already experienced two failures in Shadow 37's quadruple-redundant fly-by-wire digital flight control system. One failure, at 220 feet above the Tehachapi Mountains, had almost cost him his life. His uncanny reflexes had saved three lives in less than a second.

"Paul," Matthews said, again scanning his flight instruments, "how about dimming the panel lights just a tweak?"

"Yessir," Evans responded, reaching for the interior light control switches. He gave the instrument panel knob a slight turn. The cockpit darkened as the pilots' vision adjusted to the black, overcast night.

Matthews, fighting the insidious feeling of vertigo, keyed his intercom system. "How you doin', Larry?"

Five seconds passed without a response from the weapons systems technician. Evans cocked his head to the left to look at Simmons. What he saw horrified him.

Chapter
Two

Peter Dawson, journeyman traffic controller, stared at his radarscope, mesmerized. The emergency transponder squawk-7700was real. The code, which set off the control center alarm, had appeared instantaneously without even a primary radar return.

Dawson's supervisor, Bruce Cochrane, was already standing behind him, leaning over his shoulder. "Where the blazes did that come from?"

"You've got me," Dawson replied, looking confused. He had not been tracking any traffic twenty-five nautical miles west of the southern tip of Belcher Islands.

"Get on the land-line, Peter," the supervisor ordered, looking closer at the radarscope, "and find out what's going on out there."

Dawson nodded in response, then talked briefly with a controller in the Winnipeg sector. The young air traffic specialist listened to his associate, signed off, and turned to his supervisor. "They don't have a clue, Bruce," Dawson said, checking his pad. "That squawk popped up from an area that's temporarily restricted . . . some kind of military operation."

Cochrane shrugged his shoulders, exhaling loudly. "How long was it on the scope?"

"I'm not sure," Dawson responded, searching his mind for the answer to Cochrane's question. "Four, maybe five seconds. Long enough to trigger the alarm."

"Lad," Cochrane placed his left hand on Dawson's shoulder
,
"better whistle up the military boys and signal the rescue people. I think someone is shy one airplane."

SHADOW 37

Major Paul Evans, frozen in terror, stared at the business end of a bright orange flare gun. The muzzle was only four inches from his face.

Evans glanced down at the object in Simmons's lap. The technician had opened the valve of his temporary oxygen bottle. He was filling the cockpit with pure oxygen. One spark and Shadow 37 would explode in a thundering conflagration.

"What the hell are you doing?" Evans shouted as he reached over to tap Matthews on the sleeve.

The aircraft commander glanced quickly over his right shoulder. "Goddamn, Larry, wh--"

"Shut up, both of you," Simmons said in a shaky, strained voice. He was having a difficult time remembering the speech he had been taught. The hours of rehearsing had been wasted as the spiel evaporated slowly from his frightened mind.

Both pilots, remaining silent, gave each other a fearful look. Matthews raised the B-2's nose slightly, reaching for the safety of altitude. The mission had now become a matter of personal survival.

Matthews and Evans were surprised when the AWACS radioed on the emergency Guard, 243.0, frequency. The airborne controllers had also seen the emergency code flash on their radarscopes.

"Ghost Two Five and Shadow Three Seven, this is Mystic," the AWACS officer said. "Acknowledge."

Matthews attempted to speak to Simmons as Evans keyed his radio.

"Larry, you can't get--"

"Don't use the radio!" Simmons commanded, holding the quivering flare gun next to Evans's neck. "Unplug your radio cords--both of you. NOW! We're shutting down all systems emissions--everything."

Matthews and Evans again exchanged concerned looks as they complied with the order. Matthews scanned the primary flight instruments, checked the engine readouts, then spoke to his copilot. "Paul, take the controls, stay on course, and level at twelve thousand."

Simmons hesitated a second, then spoke to the aircraft commander in a steady voice. "Major. . . Colonel Matthews, I am in control of the flight."

Simmons waved the 12-gauge signal gun nervously between the pilots. "I give the orders. Turn to a course of one hundred eighty-seven, and go up to fifty-one thousand feet."

Evans paused, questioning Matthews.

"Go ahead, Paul," the pilot replied, then turned slightly to the right in order to face Simmons more fully. "Larry," Matthews said in a soothing voice, "we're going to comply--no problem--whatever you want, okay? Just relax, and listen."

"No," Simmons replied in a normal tone. "You are not going to talk me out of this. Just follow my directions, and you and Major Evans will be okay."

Matthews started to speak, then decided to let Simmons have hi
s s
ay.

"I am defecting to a Communist state and taking this airplane with me."

The two pilots looked at each other with blank stares. They were incredulous.

"Larry," Matthews said, shaking his head slowly, "this is insane . . . the biggest mistake you could ever make. We still have time to salvage this . . . error in judgment, if you'll give us a chance."