Final Storm (36 page)

A fuselage section went in next, then an entire landing gear assembly. Then an engine. Then another part of a wing.

On the other side of the building, another crane was lowering similar components into the hold of the
Theodore Roosevelt.

“There are one-million, two-hundred and thirty-two-thousand, four-hundred and eighty-three separate pieces to a B-1B bomber,” Hunter told Yaz, reciting the figures by heart. “Not counting the forty-eight miles of electrical wiring.

“The question is, can it all fit into the cargo holds of these two subs?”

The supersonic B-1 bomber had been part of the five-plane
Ghost Rider
flight that had served the forces of freedom in the great battles on the North American continent after the war.

The Ghost Riders were a unique group of airplanes. Their fuselages were jammed with literally tons of sophisticated electronic jamming and masking gear. When linked by computer and flying under the right conditions, the five airplanes were able to cover up one-hundred percent of their “signatures.”

In short, when the Ghost Riders were “in system,” they could become invisible to radar.

But now, the
Ghost Riders
were no more.

They had to be sacrificed for this mission, a decision that Jones and Hunter painfully had to make. One of the Ghost Riders, Ghost #2, had to be gutted of all its intricate masking electronics, thus forever breaking up the integrity of the Ghost flight.

Once this sobering yet crucial operation was completed, a whole new set of avionics and weapons systems had to be fitted into the swing-wing bomber, again in record time. This equipment too was sadly cannibalized from the more modern fighters—the ultra-sophisticated F-20s, mostly—in the United American Air Corps inventory.

A highly advanced video broadcast system was also shoe-horned into the plane’s cockpit, this at the special request of Hunter.

Then, once it was certain that everything fit, it all had to be taken out again, and the airplane itself dismantled and packed, and then secretly shipped via forty-five different routes and vehicles to Newport News.

In all, a dozen airplanes had to be scrapped or disabled to provide the needed equipment for the mission. Twelve airplanes that would likely never fly again …

Eighteen hours after the loading operation began, the last pieces of the disassembled bomber were loaded into the gaping cargo holds of the huge submarines.

Once done, steel I-beam supports were guided in across the top of the holds, and inch-thick steel plates were laid in on top of the bomber pieces. The
Ohio
wound up with the most room left over—this of course was by design. Into its hold, several pieces of earth moving equipment were secured—a small grader and one of the portable cranes were crammed into the crowded cargo bay that had once held two dozen Trident D-4 nuclear missiles.

Hunter tracked down an exhausted Yaz, thanked him and ordered that he and his men get no less than seven hours sleep. The next day would be devoted to the task of fitting the massive hatch covers onto the converted submarines’ decks and making the final launch preparations.

“That was the easy part,” Hunter thought to himself before leaving the huge building. “Now, it really gets tough …”

G
ENERAL DAVE JONES LIT
his fourth cigar of the morning, and took a swig of cold coffee.

He was seated before a large video monitor encased in a sturdy black-green box. A smaller box underneath it contained a small computer screen and a keyboard, which Jones was using to punch in coordinates from a small pile of maps and photographs spread out on the table in front of him.

Periodically, he glanced up at the video monitor to examine the picture gradually taking shape, and, if he approved, he would store the information away in the computer’s memory.

Once every thirty minutes, he would relight his stogie, warm up his coffee, and stroll over to the office window and look out on the seemingly empty, rusting shipyard nearby.

“Perfect,” he would think to himself just about every time. “Looks like there isn’t a soul out there …”

Like Hunter and the others close to the mission, Jones had taken up residence at Newport News; specifically in the former digs of the yard’s one-time commander. It had taken him a day and a half to move all the equipment he needed down from Washington, and another half day to get it up and working.

Only then could the down-and-dirty mission planning begin in earnest.

The target was the phased-array radar complex at Krasnoyarsk, the place identified as the location of the Soviets’ control center for using the sophisticated weapons-targeting satellites. It was in the middle of Godforsaken Khazakstan, a place not too far from equally Godforsaken Siberia.

Jones’s equipment—the video monitor, the keyboard and the hefty computer—were all part of the formidable MAPS, or Mission Analysis & Planning System. Developed before World War Three, the system employed sophisticated digital imaging technology and a powerful computer platform to allow pilots and mission planners to plot each leg of their battle sorties on the computer screen.

Constructing computer images from pre-war satellite photographs, topographical maps, and other sources, the MAPS computer automatically calculated fuel consumption, optimum weapons load and selected each turnpoint for the mission planner, plotting the coordinates and vectors for the pilot or navigator.

More importantly, the system analyzed the known defenses and enemy radar screen coverage, highlighting areas where the attacking aircraft would be vulnerable to SAMs or ground fire.

Best of all, the MAPS provided a simulated radar readout from the compiled data for any given point on the flight path. Complex software and hardware tools allowed a pilot to “preview” his radar screen over the target even before he left the ground. And the information was stored in an optical memory disk cartridge that could be inserted into the plane’s cockpit console for playback during the mission.

It was for the installation of this MAPS hardware that the Ghost Rider ships had been stripped.

Jones was just configuring the system to show enemy radar coverage along the Soviet northern border and down to the target when Hunter walked in, carrying a bag of sandwiches and four bottles of beer.

Punching several buttons to select the widest view possible, Hunter settled down just as the big video screen was filled with a bright red map of the Soviet Union. Large pie-shaped blue wedges fanned out from selected locations inside Soviet territory, showing the range of the known radar sites.

The largest one indicated was at Krasnoyarsk.

“How are things down at the marina?” Jones asked without taking his eyes off the video screen and keyboard. “Will our bird and our fish be ready on time?”

“The bird has been carved and stuffed,” Hunter said, chomping a tuna-and-chicken sandwich. “The fish will be ready by tomorrow morning.”

“Yaz and his guys did a great job,” Jones said, never taking his eyes off the computer screen.

Hunter took a long swig of the bathtub beer. “How’s your end going?”

“Well know in a minute,” Jones said, taking bites of his own sandwich, and washing them down with beer. “Just as soon as the computer finishes drawing the latest picture.”

As if on cue, the video monitor flashed once, indicating completion of the radar mapping. Hunter let out a low whistle as the blue cones appeared to shroud the entire periphery of the Soviet Union.

“
Goddamn
,” he exclaimed. “According to this, the whole damned country is sealed up with SAMs.”

Jones studied the video image and pulled his mouth down in a frown. “Remember, although we’re basing this on satellite photos that were snapped before the Big War, I think we have to assume that the Sovs have kept most of them in operation.”

Hunter studied the computer image closely. “If I didn’t know better, I would say, judging by this, it would seem as if there was no way to get in without them spotting the airplane.”

“Or so it would seem at first glance,” Jones replied. “But look carefully at the northern frontier. This is really what we are keying in on. See it?”

Jones pointed to the screen, and Hunter looked even closer. Some nine hundred miles northeast of Moscow, there was indeed a small triangular area near the northern coastline that appeared to be uncovered by one of the many blue cones that interlocked around the entire country’s perimeter. The powerful Soviet radars based in Moscow scanned most of the northwestern corner of the country, including the area due north of the clear spot, nearly up to the North Pole. The corresponding radar site at Peckora fanned out toward the northeast, leaving a sliver of clear on the screen.

“It means we’ve got to go in closer than I’d like,” Jones offered, “but it’s really the only option I see.”

Hunter stared at the video image for a long moment, finally nodding his concurrence with Jones’s analysis.

“And egress from the target area?” Hunter asked, falling into the formal terminology used to describe getting the hell out of someplace you’ve just nailed with tons of high explosives.

“Ah, yes, the egress,” Jones intoned. “Well, as you can see from the close-up,”—he stabbed a few buttons on the keyboard to zoom the image up to a smaller section of the picture—“there is a very narrow window to try and shoot through, if for some reason the missile fails to take out the Krasnoyarsk radar. It’s right here.”

Jones traced along a narrow wedge that followed the southern edge of the Krasnoyarsk radar’s cone until it met the northern edge of a radar site near Vladivostok. Ominously, the two radar ranges overlapped somewhere over the Sea of Japan.

“Of course, if all goes exactly according to plan, we could egress due east in the Goodyear blimp, right over the chunk of real estate the Krasnoyarsk radar is covering,” Jones said blandly. “But I’ve already laid in an alternative course just in case.”

Hunter nodded again, recognizing the importance of a contingency plan.

He spent time with one more beer and another sandwich, watching as Jones continued to punch more buttons on the computer keyboard. Within two minutes, he was able to call up what appeared to be a close-in aerial shot of the Krasnoyarsk facility.

Actually, it was a digitized simulation compiled from satellite photos and map coordinates. A thin white line traced a jagged path across the screen, each turnpoint labeled with a string of numbers that Hunter knew represented altitudes, speeds, and vectors.

A white “V” shape highlighted a spot on the map some twelve miles northwest of the Krasnoyarsk radar itself, which was distinguished with a large red “X” that bisected the narrow radar building dead center.

“There it is,” Jones pronounced, entering the image into the computer’s memory. “Almost as close a shot of them as they have of us, the bastards.”

Hunter was studying the image at the same time, committing it to
his
extraordinary memory banks.

The target work continued, with Hunter taking the place behind the huge computer video board.

Swiftly, he tapped a series of keys that instructed the computer to construct both a visual and a radar screen image of the target area at the weapons release point. When completed, he made sure to save it on the optical disk, so they could play it back during the mission. But before he did, he made a vivid mental image of the radar picture and filed it away in his own brain. This way, even without the aid of the on-board computers, he’d know when to release the payload.

“Well, Hawk,” Jones said after reviewing everything stored in the mission’s computer’s memory, “that should be about it. We’ve laid in the entire course except for the first fifty miles. Since we don’t know the exact point of takeoff, we’ll have to play that by ear until we link up with our flight plan. But that should be the least of our worries.”

“Did the ordnance arrive on schedule?” Hunter asked.

“Being delivered right now,” the general explained. “AGM-130 Strikers—the biggest non-nuclear bang for the buck available in what’s left of the Free World’s arsenal. As you know, it’s got a hell of a TV camera built into the nose of an infrared guidance system. It drops like a dumb bomb, but we can monitor its flight on one of the TV screens and ‘fly’ it in with a joystick.”

Hunter nodded in agreement, though somewhat ruefully.

“The big drawback,” Jones continued, “is that the damn bombs weigh about three thousand pounds apiece, that’s with a full conventional high-explosive warhead. So we’ve got to get within twelve miles to drop it on the target.”

“I’m not worried about that …” Hunter said frankly.

Suddenly Jones turned and looked at him.

“Goddamn it, Hawk,” he said, “I’ve been rattling on like a bunch of us are flying in with you … I’m sorry about that.”

Hunter shrugged. He really wasn’t bothered by the comments.

Not much anyway …

Everyone involved in the mission planning knew that the B-1 could probably be launched, flown to the target and ordered to dispense its weapons, all via radio and computer-generated commands.

But the computers couldn’t take into account all of the intangibles that inevitably arose during critical missions such as this one. These unforeseen dangers would have to be dealt with as they popped up and only a human could do that. Yet, the cold hard statistics dictated that the chances of the airplane returning safely from the mission were slightly less than one hundred to one.

That’s why Hunter was going on this one alone.

Sort of …

Actually, the mission called for at least a crew of four. Whereas Jones, Toomey, and Wa were, next to Hunter, the best pilots around, they would have been the natural choice to fly the mission with him. But again, common sense dictated that you didn’t send your four best pilots on a suicide mission.

So Hunter had come up with the next best thing.

In one night he had designed and linked the elaborate system of TV cameras and screens for set-up inside the B-1’s cockpit. He also installed a long-range computer/radio control system which was hitched to the airplane’s myriad of flight systems.