The Fourth War (19 page)

“I got it,” Tia shouted. Her voice remained calm, though she held a death grip on the stick. Bradley nodded, then reluctantly pulled his hands away from the controls.

The B-2 descended steeply and the tanker accelerated away. Tia leveled off a thousand feet below the tanker. She kept it in sight and held a position about a mile behind. Seconds later the radios came to life. For the first time since taking off, the combat aircraft broke radio silence.

“Kill 31, say status,” the tanker pilot asked, his voice tight and distressed.

Bradley ignored him while he ran through his checklist. He closed his air refueling receptacle, placed his rudder/brakes to their cruise flight position, visually cleared the tanker, monitored Tia as she leveled the aircraft, then initiated the automatic fuel balance system.

“Kill 31, say status,” the tanker pilot demanded again.

Bradley switched his radio. “Boxcar, this is Kill. Stand by,” he said. He released his broadcast switch, turned to Tia and asked. “How does it feel?”

“I've had a slight buzz in the pedals, but it's dissipating now. We must have broken some skin off of one of the control surfaces.”

“The jet feels okay though?”

“Yes, I think so.”

The radios crackled again. This time it was the other B-2. “Kill Lead, this is Two.” The radio transmission was weak and barely understandable.

Bradley paused, glanced at Tia, then answered, “Go, Two.”

“Yeah, what the…what happened up there, Lead?”

“We're checking it. The boom broke.”

“Yeah, well, ah…I would say so. And we've got a little problem back here.”

Bradley grew more tense. With those words, he knew the mission lay in the balance. He shot another look to Tia. “What's up down there, guys?” he asked.

“Part of the boom—it came out of nowhere. We took a piece of metal up our intake. Looks like we're going to lose engines three and four.”

Bradley swore in frustration. “You going to make it back there?” he demanded.

“Yeah, we're okay, boss. But give us a minute while we sort this out. We do know that engine three is a goner, and four doesn't look good.”

“Standing by,” Bradley answered. He fumed, then turned to Tia. “All right,” he asked, “how is our jet?”

“It feels okay,” she answered. “Certainly mission-capable.” She nodded toward the main computer display. “How do our systems look?”

Bradley scanned his CRTs, bringing up various displays to check the health of his jet. The integrated computer system ran a check of every valve, hose, relay, engine, black box, pressure, and system. The computers indicated several systems were down; including the adjustable intake scoop on the number three engine and the communications antennae relay.

“The number three bypass scoop has been damaged,” he announced. “That will give us a higher infrared signature, and that isn't good when we're going into combat. How significant it will be, there is no way to know. And our flush mount antennae relay was also hit.”

“Which means we have no HF and satellite-radio capability,” Tia said.

Bradley nodded unhappily. The HF and SATCOM were used for long-range transmissions. They were the only way to communicate with their command post or American forces on the ground.

“We should still have UHF and VHF capability,” Tia said. “The central computer should automatically route those radio antennae signals through the other relay.”

Bradley shook his head as he recalled the electrical schematic. “I don't think so, Tia,” he said. “The relays sit side by side and are flush-mounted to the skin. If one was damaged, chances are, they both got hit.”

Tia glanced at him. “How do you know that?”

Bradley paused. “I can picture the schematic in my mind.”

Tia nodded, impressed as Bradley worked his data input display. “I was right,” he said, looking up from his computer. “The integrated computer is indicating damage to both antennae relays. And without the antennae boost, not only do we lose SATCOM and HF, but both UHF and VHF radios will be broadcasting on raw power only. They will have a very short range, perhaps just a few miles.”

“That isn't going to help us much, is it?” Tia said ironically.

Bradley nodded, then their radio broke in again: “Kill, this is Two.” The radio signal was so weak, it was barely understandable.

“Go, Two,” Bradley answered.

“Yeah, Lead, status report. It looks like we sucked up a couple pieces of the boom and it has cooked number three engine completely. Four is overheating, but hanging in there right now. It might give us a few minutes, but that's about all. Looks like we're done for the day. We've got to nurse this baby home.”

“Rog,” Bradley said.

“We copy,” the tanker pilot also replied. “We can escort Kill Two to Aviano.”

“Okay, guys, stand by,” Bradley answered. “We've got a few things here we need to sort out. Meanwhile, tanker, continue on track. Two, stay with us. We'll get back to you with the plan.”

Bradley turned to Tia. “Okay, we've got to make a few decisions. First things first. Except for the radios, do we have a good jet?”

Tia stirred the controls and the B-2 responded in kind. She pulled the nose up, then pushed down, completing her controllability check. “It feels good,” she answered, then nodded to the main console and said, “Try the radios.”

Bradley punched at his control panel to broadcast over VHF radio. “No good on Victor,” he said.

“COMSAT?”

Bradley tried the satellite communications and data receiver. “No good. I'm getting a partial signal, but that's it. Without the antennae relay, we won't have a range beyond one or two miles.”

“FM?” Tia asked. She was down to their last radio.

Again Bradley played with his communications panel. He dialed up several FM frequencies. Tia concentrated on following the tanker and flying the jet. “No good,” Bradley announced in frustration. “Five freakin' radios in this jet, and not a single one of them is good for more than two miles.”

“Guess there might be a design flaw in grouping the two relay boxes together,” Tia answered sarcastically.

“Yeah. Go figure why the engineers didn't consider the possibility of an air-refueling boom sliding down the top of the jet at four hundred miles an hour.”

“At least the boom wasn't sucked into one of our engines.”

“Or smashed through our windscreen.”

Tia swallowed. In her mind she saw the enormous boom falling toward them, a dark metal pole flipping end over end. She pictured it swinging by their cockpit window and swallowed again. “What do we do?”

Bradley glanced through the windscreen. He watched the two KC-10s, maybe one mile ahead and a thousand feet above. The sun was beginning to set and the tankers reflected the horizontal light. He punched his radio broadcast switch, “Boxcar, Kill 31, how do you read?”

“Kill…Boxcar…you weak and extremely broken…status and…intentions.”

Bradley swore to himself. Without the com relay, his radios had even less range than he had expected. He motioned for Tia to close in on the tanker. She moved the throttles forward and quickly closed the distance between the two aircraft. Bradley pressed his broadcast button again and spoke very slowly. “Kill 31 is in the green. But our antennae relays have been severely damaged, so we will be NORDO, except for when in extremely close range.”

“Roger. Confirm mission capable—possible NORDO.” The radio was more clear now that they had moved in on the tanker.

“Affirm. NORDO. No Radio,” Bradley replied.

“NORDO, yes sir.”

“You heard the status of number Two?” Bradley asked.

“Roger, Kill. Two has lost number three. Four is going down. Confirm you want us to escort Kill Two back to Aviano?”

“Is that what you want to do, Two?”

“Rog, Lead,” the second B-2 pilot replied.

“Understand, Two,” Bradley answered. “Boxcar, you copy?”

“Copy that, Kill.”

Bradley paused then punched his radio again. “Boxcar, what happened up there?”

“You got me, 31. We've never seen anything like that before. The boomer tried to unlatch the boom to reset it, but he couldn't pull away from your receptacle. The latch lock then broke away, pulling the boom loose from its hydraulic seat. It only took seconds before we lost one of the steering fins, and once that was gone, the asymmetrical lift broke the boom completely away. We figure you got about two thousand pounds of metal in the face. We're awful sorry, sir. We were sucking seat cushion too.”

“You guys okay?”

“Nothing a little duct tape and superglue won't fix.”

“Good.”

“One more thing, Kill. The boomer reports your refueling receptacle is definitely cracked. You are Tango Uniform for more refueling, I'm afraid.”

Bradley glanced at Tia and they both shook their heads. “Rog,” Bradley answered. “Broken refueling receptacle. Negative ability to refuel.”

The radios were quiet for ten seconds while the crews absorbed this news. “With your radios down, do you want us to relay for you?” the tanker pilot finally said.

“Stand by,” Bradley answered. He looked at his fuel control panel. “We only got half our fuel load,” he said to Tia.

She was already figuring how far they could make it. She tapped quickly at her flight computer. “We've got a little over 105,000 pounds. That will get us to the target, with a two-hour-forty-eight-minute reserve. But that isn't enough fuel to get anywhere safe after that.”

“What options do we have?”

“Abort the mission and head for Aviano.”

“Negative. With Two dropping out, we absolutely will continue.”

“If we are bleeding radar energy or suffered damage to the RAM, we might not be able to complete the mission safely anyway.”

Bradley turned to Tia. She was already staring at him. Both of them were thinking of the nuclear warheads hidden under Mount Tirich Mir. “Let me say it again,” Bradley answered. “As long as this jet will fly, we will continue the mission. If it means we fly until we run out of gas, we will continue to the target. Regardless the cost.”

Tia nodded in his direction. She understood. “I wasn't suggesting otherwise, sir,” she added. “But you asked for our options. I'm only pointing out the things we have to consider.”

“Understand. Continue.”

“With the fuel we have left, we could hit the target, then turn west. A tanker could deploy and meet us over northern Iraq.”

“No good. The tanker would likely be shot down over Syria, Iran, or Lebanon. And with a cracked refueling receptacle, we couldn't refuel anyway.”

“Next option, we forge ahead, hit the target, then try for Diego Garcia.”

Bradley worked his navigational computer, figuring the distance to the tiny British island in the Indian Ocean. He shook his head. “We'll flame out five hundred miles short.”

“Islamabad? Kabul?”

“Negative. That is the very last option we have. I'd ditch before I'd land this aircraft at any airfield in southern Asia. We will not land at an unsecured field. We will not expose this aircraft to an unsecure environment.”

“Kill…Kill,” the tanker pilot broke into their conversation. “Ki…intent…relay.” The radio transmission was almost completely lost in static. Bradley looked out of his windscreen. The tanker had moved out before them. He glanced at his radar. The tanker was a little more than three miles away. “Kill…state…Kill…intentions.”

“Stand by,” Bradley growled over the radio again. “Push up the speed,” he then commanded Tia. “Stay within half a mile or we will lose communications with them completely.” Tia pushed up the throttles to close on the tanker again.

“We could hit the target, then try for Manama Air Base?” Bradley suggested after some thought. Manama was on the tip of Qatar, along the eastern edge of the Saudi Arabian Peninsula. It was the nearest secure airbase in which they could land. But with only 105,000 pounds of fuel in their tanks it was going to be very close. “With a two-hour-forty-eight-minute reserve, we should be able to hit the target, then get back to Qatar,” he said.

Tia thought as she flew. “Manama is a Qatar military installation, but it is secure. There's a United States Marine unit and deployed F-16s. It's the only place within a thousand miles of Pakistan that I would dare put this aircraft down.” She turned to the data entry panel on her right side. “What are the coordinates of the field at Manama?” she asked.

Bradley pulled out his Flight Information Handbook and quickly, almost nervously, flipped through the pages. He found the information he was looking for and read the airfield coordinates for Manama to Tia. She punched the information into her computer, then looked at the result.

“We can make the airfield with a twenty-one minute reserve,” she announced. “If the headwinds don't pick up. And if we have no delays.”

“Twenty-one minutes!” Bradley shook his head in frustration. “And that's only if we fly over Iran, which we want to avoid at all cost, if we can.” He reached over and picked up the aeronautical chart. “What if we go from the target south to the Gulf of Oman, and from there to Manama? That way we wouldn't have to over fly Afghanistan and Iran on the way to Qatar.”

“No way. It's too far. We would run out of gas.”

“Okay. But what if we charted a course for the tip of the United Arab Emirates. We could skirt the border of Afghanistan and most of Iran. That would keep us clear of most hostile airspace.”

“It's longer that way, but probably worth the risk. The last thing we want is be over hostiles after we have completed the attack. But that would get us to Manama with only”—Tia punched at her data panel—“a twelve-minute fuel reserve.”

Bradley pressed his lips in silent desperation. Calling it razor thin was a gracious understatement. It was less than a razor. It was near suicide. But he didn't have any choice. Bad as it was, it was the only option they had. “Okay,” he said with a tight swallow. “We know we have damage to our RAM and we don't know how detectable to radar we might be. In addition, we might be bleeding infrared energy. We can probably sneak over before the attack, when the bad guys won't be looking. But everyone will launch their air-defense fighters to watch their flanks once they get word of the mission. There's no way we want to fly over those countries when we're on the way home.