Flight of the Old Dog, page 8
“Ambassador, in our lifetime we can see nuclear weapons eliminated. Not just a phony controlled escalation, not even a numerical reduction. No, I talk of true disarmament.”
Brent swirled the brandy in his glass and stared into it. “But there are those who see disarmament as a weakness. They seek to disrupt our efforts at every turn. It is the actions of these ‘disrupters’ that I wish to warn your government about, Ambassador. “
“What … actions, Mr. Secretary?” Karmarov asked.
“As I said, there are many in my government who are convinced of your culpability in the loss of our aircraft,” Brent said. “They have conjured up a magical laser device, straight out of one of our Hollywood films, and planted it on Ust-Kamchatkskiy, at your research center at Kavaznya. Evidence or not, they have all but convinced the President that this laser exists and that it threatens the security of the United States.”
Karmarov could not keep his eyes focused on Brent’s. Brent’s fingers curled a bit tighter around the brandy snifter as he noticed Karmarov’s uneasiness.
Dammit, Brent thought. Could it be true? Is it possible…?
“You must convince them, Mr. Secretary,” Karmarov said quickly, forcing his eyes back toward Brent’s. “I plead with you, my government is deeply and firmly committed to lasting peace and the total elimination of all nuclear weapons from the face of the globe. Nothing must interfere.”
“I have come to offer you my guarantee,” Brent continued, “that I will make every effort to achieve a workable arms agreement. But 1 must tell you what is afoot. There is talk of matching the so-called killer laser with a construct of our own. I’m not at liberty to give details, but—”
“Ice Fortress!” Karmarov said suddenly. “The armed space platform! That’s what your military means to deploy, isn’t it?”
Brent sighed. “Again, I’m not at liberty to discuss—”
“But that’s it, isn’t it?” Karmarov’s face was flushed with anger. “Marshall, you know that deployment of Ice Fortress is a clear violation of the 1972 Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty. It is a violation of the 1982 Space De-Militarization Agreement. It flies in the face of our entire arms elimination negotiations. It is madness.”
“Key elements in our military are convinced of the existence of a killer laser,” Brent said. “That is also a violation …”
“Such a device—should it ever exist in our lifetime—is not a violation of the ABM Treaty,” Karmarov interrupted. “The Treaty clearly never mentioned such exotic devices because they exist only in the imagination of a few excitable scientists and physicists. Why write a treaty forbidding something that does not exist?”
Karmarov’s rising tone of voice, with the strained chuckle punctuating his last sentence. rang like an echo from the walls of a canyon in Brent’s ears. Karmarov continued: “The Space De-Militarization Agreement does not apply. of course, to a ground-based defensive device. It was specifically written to eliminate the placement of weapons of any kind in orbit over the Earth. It was supposed to have averted a madness that swept both our countries. It cannot be possible for your country to deploy Ice Fortress. It cannot.”
“I have made no admission that such is the case,” Brent said. “But I can tell you that many options are being considered.”
He looked directly into Karmarov’s eyes and paused, as if to lend emphasis to what he was about to say. “The laser is a menace, Dmitri,” Brent said. His voice sounded as if it came from the bottom of a deep well. “Find some way to reassure the leaders of my government that their fears about a laser at Kavaznya are groundless. Make some sort of presentation about the research you conduct there, or at least describe the facility in a bit more detail. But put the saber-rattlers to rest…”
“I can guarantee little,” Karmarov said.
“We must not fail, Dmitri,” Brent replied. He got up and took Karmarov’s hand in his. “The future—our children’s future—may depend on it.” Slowly, Brent released his grip on Karmarov’s hand. He gave the Ambassador a curt nod and made his way out of the room.
Karmarov watched him leave, then sat down in one of the plush leather chairs. He did not move for a full two minutes. Finally, he rang for Asserni.
“Do they know?” Asserni asked.
“They suspect. How could they not suspect?” Karmarov reached down to the table and gripped his snifter with both hands. “What the hell are they doing over there, Asserni? Are they trying to destroy the arms agreement? What do they want the Americans to do?”
Asserni did not reply. Karmarov stared into the brandy for a long time.
“I want the secure line to the Kremlin open all morning,” he finally ordered.
“Of course, Comrade Ambassador.”
He drained the liqueur and winced—both at the bite of the spirits and from the threats that were now bombarding him from both sides.
“What are they doing? What?”
FORD AIR FORCE BASE, CALIFORNIA
Patrick McLanahan was in trouble.
His partner, Dave Luger, had been severely injured by flying glass and metal after his five-inch radar scope exploded from a near-hit by a Soviet SA-4 surface-to-air missile. Their aircraft had just been jumped by a small squadron of four MiG-25s. Climbing out of the low-level bomb run area in broad daylight, the B-52 was a sitting duck for the advanced Soviet interceptors.
Luger, lounging in his ejection seat, watched his partner switch the bomb-nav radar scope from off-center present position mode to station-keeping, bringing the radar antenna up to level with the aircraft’s longitudinal axis. The display was now configured from attack mode to scanning mode, with a maximum of five miles range with range marks displayed every half mile. He was trying to save their lives.
“Anything I can do for you, Pat?” Luger asked nonchalantly.
“Watch for the damn fighters,” McLanahan said.
“Can’t do that, buddy,” Luger said. “I’ve got serious injuries over here, remember?”
As if to emphasize his point, he lolled lifelessly across the aisle, his parachute harness barely keeping him in his ejection seat. He stared up at the overhead circuit breaker panel of the B-52 Ejection and Egress Trainer, his arms flung out awkwardly. McLanahan muttered something about how stupid he looked.
“When did they add that into the scenario?” McLanahan asked.
“I don’t know,” Luger said. “I like it, though.”
“You’re havin’ too much of a fucking good time,” McLanahan said.
“I like watchin’ you work your butt off, partner.”
“Too bad your injuries haven’t affected your mouth.” McLanahan flipped switches on the instrument panel in front of him and looked over at his partner. “Get strapped in like you’re supposed to. Can you still reach your ejection trigger ring, or are your hands blown off too?”
Luger went through the charade of inspecting his hands. “Nope, they look fine.” As he reached for his parachute harness straps, he noticed a faint ripple of light in the upper left-hand corner of the radar navigator’s ten-inch radar scope.
“Ten o’clock,” Luger said, pointing at the scope. “Interference patterns. Could be …”
“No cheating now, Luger,” the instructor, Paul White, interrupted from the control console outside the trainer. “You’re blind, remember? Are you ready for the finale?”
“They’ve got this place bugged,” Luger said, hurriedly pulling on the parachute.
“You’d be dead meat right now if those fighters launched a missile, Dave,” White said. “Don’t tell me you’re going to unstrap yourself like that during the real thing?”
“Only if there aren’t any instructors around,” Luger said. White did not share in the joke, and Luger quieted up and finished strapping himself into his seat.
“Pilot,” McLanahan said, acting as if he was talking to the pilot, “I’m picking up a bogey at ten o’clock, five miles. Moving rapidly to eleven o’clock.”
“Roger,” White said, acting now as the pilot. Then, switching roles to the crew electronic warfare officer, he shouted, “Pilot, break left now.” Simultaneously, he turned a large black knob on the console in front of him, putting the trainer into a sharp left turn. The compartment in which McLanahan and Luger were sitting was mounted on four ten-foot hydraulic legs, enabling it to move in any direction at the instructor’s command.
“Bogey at one o’clock, three and a half miles,” McLanahan reported. The interference pattern on his radar scope, the telltale sign of the enemy fighter’s radar transmissions intermingling with the B-52’s radar, disappeared and then hardened into a solid white dot on the upper-right corner of the ten-inch scope. By the time the radar sweep picked up the dot again, it had moved considerably. “Beginning to go off my scope rapidly at three o’clock, three miles. Guns, you should be able to pick him up.”
“Pilot,” White said, now as the crew gunner, “my fire-control system is broken. All gun barrels are jammed. No radar contact.” White switched back to the E.W. “Pilot, the fighter’s radar has gone down. Last contact was five o’clock, two miles. Expecting a cannon attack or infrared missile attack. Continue evasive maneuvers.” White swung the control knob to the right, and the real-motion simulator responded by slamming both crewmembers into their seats. “Dispensing chaff and flares. Continue evasive maneuvers.”
A long pause. The gyro compass and altimeter were both spinning madly as White, striving for maximum realism in his trainer, jerked the “plane” around as quickly as he could without locking up the hydraulically operated moving trainer. Then he leveled the trainer out and said, “Crew, this is the copilot. We’ve taken a missile hit on number four nacelle. Generators seven and eight are off-line. Pilot, seven and eight engine fire T handles, pulled.”
White studied a hidden closed-circuit TV picture of the inside of the egress trainer—another modification he hadn’t told the trainees about. Both McLanahan and Luger were sitting bolt-upright in their seats, heads shoved back, work tables stowed, their hands gripping the ejection trigger rings between their legs. They were fighting to remain upright in the oscillating box. White twisted the controls, and the wildly-bucking box on its hydraulic legs slowly came back to normal. Both navigators were still tense, waiting for the order to eject.
Not yet, boys, White said to himself. He turned and signaled the technicians assisting him to get ready, then clicked on his interphone.
“Okay, gents,” White said. “Fun’s over. I was just checking out my new full-motion range. What do you think?”
“I’ll tell you,” McLanahan said, “after I puke on your shirt.”
“Thanks,” White said. “Okay. You’re level at ten thousand feet. Plenty of time to get ready for ejection, right, Luger?”
“No sir,” Luger answered. “Last I remember before you blew my radar scope up—and that was a nifty addition to your little chamber of horrors here, by the way—the terrain was mountainous. Some peaks went up to six or seven thousand feet. Maybe more.”
“Very good,” White said. “Pressure altitude is secondary—it’s feet above ground you need to worry about. You’re still flying over mountains. What else do you have to worry about, McLanahan?”
“The only damn thing I’m going to worry about,” McLanahan said, “is how far upwind I can get of that one-point-one megaton bomb I just dropped.”
“You guys are sharp, real sharp,” White said, beaming. “I guess that’s why you picked up eight trophies at Bomb Comp. All right, now, you only dropped your bomb ten minutes ago. We were balls-to-the-wall after bomb release, so we escaped the blast effects, but the fallout is still spreading. So if you were the pilot, Luger, what would you do?”
“Well, we only lost two engines,” Luger said after thinking for a few moments. “I’d try to keep this Strato-Pig flying as long as I could toward the coast until she wouldn’t stay up any more, then start punchin’ people out.”
“Even with a squadron of MiGs on your tail?” White prompted.
“Well, shit,” McLanahan said. “Our day has already gone to hell. Maybe they’ll blow us up, or maybe they’ll miss, or maybe they’ll go home when they see our right wing on fire. Who knows’? I’m bettin’ that, even if they hit us again, we’ll still have a couple of seconds to get out before the damn plane falls out of the sky. Our goose is cooked either way.”
“Okay, Patrick,” White said. “Don’t get all worked up. This trainer is here primarily to give you practice in using your downward ejection seat, true, but I want you guys to get more out of it. Some guys will punch out as soon as they hear the word ‘fire.’ Others will wait for an order. Some guys will freeze. Some guys will never punch out—they think they’re safer in the plane, or that they can ditch it or crash land it. I want you guys to think about what to do. That’s all. Ejecting is a traumatic and dangerous thing to do—and I should know, because I’ve done it three times. I’ve seen too many guys die unnecessarily because they don’t think first. Okay?”
“Okay,” McLanahan said.
“Well, then,” White said, “I, uh … listen, I have to use the little boy’s room. I’ll be back in a few minutes, and we’ll just talk about the ejection sequence and finish early. Okay?”
“Sure,” McLanahan replied.
“Good. Don’t go away.”
The interphone clicked dead. Luger turned a puzzled glance toward McLanahan. “Leave early? That’s a first.”
“I smell a rat,” McLanahan said.
“Big deal,” Luger said. He placed a hand near the yellow ejection trigger ring, now stowed on the front of his ejection seat between his legs. “I’ve punched out of this thing a dozen—”
Luger never finished that sentence.
The trainer suddenly swerved and heeled sharply to the right. Almost immediately afterward, it pitched down so suddenly that both navigators’ helmets bumped against their work tables.
The red ABANDON light between the two navigators’ seats snapped on. Luger reached for the ejection ring with his free hand, but the cabin rolled over to the left so hard that it appeared it was completely flopped on its side. Not only did Luger’s left hand never find the ring, but his right hand was flung away from it.
Swearing softly to himself, McLanahan flicked a small lever on the front left corner of his ejection seat. With his right hand, he grabbed the side of his seat and straightened himself up. The shoulder harness inertial reel took up the slack, anchoring McLanahan’s back upright in the seat.
His partner, caught completely unawares, was almost bent in half when the cabin swung over to the left. Straining, McLanahan reached across the narrow aisle and locked Luger’s shoulder harness. Luger, propelled by rage that surely could be heard outside on the instructor’s control panel, hauled himself upright in his seat.
“C’mon, boys,” Major White said, gleefully watching the two navigators struggle on his closed-circuit TV. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure his safety observers and technicians were in place. “Time’s a-wastin’ …”
The lights in the compartment had gone out. The cabin was lit only by the eerie glow of the ABANDON light, but a few seconds later that too blinked out. The normally quiet hum of the trainer had been replaced by super-amplified sounds of explosions, screeching metal, hissing gas, and more explosions. Smoke began to fill the compartment. White had really laid on the realism this time, McLanahan thought to himself—the smoke began to sting his eyes. The cabin pitched over again, rolling slowly to the right and tipping downward.
Luger swore, louder than ever. He crossed his hands, wrapped his fingers around the trigger ring between his legs, slammed his head back against the headrest, and pulled the ring as if he were doing a biceps curl.
Closing his eyes and grimacing, Luger yelled, “Damn you, Major Whiiiite.”
McLanahan saw a rectangle of light appear under Luger’s seat, and then his partner was gone, blasted clear of the wildly-pitching trainer by powerful thrusters. Grunting with satisfaction, McLanahan gripped his own trigger ring, braced himself with his legs and feet, and pulled.
Nothing happened.
It was McLanahan’s turn to swear, very loudly, but his actions were immediate. With two quick, fluid jerks, he pulled a yellow ring on either side of his ejection seat, freeing himself of the bulky global survival kit underneath him and popping the connections that held him fast. He reached upward, his blind fingers instantly finding the handhold bolted onto the overhead circuit breaker panel, and hauled himself up and out of the malfunctioned seat. The remains of his lap belt and shoulder harness clattered away.
The trainer was now tilted several degrees to the right, and McLanahan had to scramble for a handhold to keep himself clear of the gaping hole where his partner had been sitting a few moments earlier. He clutched the ladder behind Luger’s seat and the catapult railing that had shot Luger’s seat down into space.
Like a blind man feeling for a chair, McLanahan carefully manuevered himself around the catapult railing, propping his feet against the hatch edge, feeling for the rim of the hatch. The cabin tilted over and down even further, and his helmeted head banged against the side of the open hatch. His parachute felt like a huge concrete block on his back, dragging him closer and closer to the opening. The sounds behind him were deafening.
He was now straddling the open hatch, his feet against the back edge of the opening, his hands on either side, his head staring down through the hatch. There was another terrific explosion inside the cabin. A brilliant white light flashed. With one motion, McLanahan let go of both sides of the hatch. His right hand seized the D-ring ripcord on the harness of his parachute, and his left wrapped around his middle. He tucked his head down and rolled out through the open hatch, curling his knees up to his chest.
