Ashes of Victory, page 10
“Well?” Stone asked. “What’s the word from our boys belowdecks?”
“Just went over the maintenance records with my line chiefs, sir,” Cardona replied in his booming voice. “All checked out good. That Rhino was in perfect condition when it left my hangar. But, as you know, it isn’t unusual for pilots to report issues when flying that we sometimes can’t reproduce in the shop.”
“What are you saying, Master Chief?” asked Stone.
“I’m saying that sometimes shit happens, and we just don’t know why.”
Stone frowned and gave the large NCO a slight nod before turning to Kowalski and shrugging. “You heard the man, Skipper. It was, well, a fluke.”
“Yeah,” Kowalski said, his features tightening. “A very fucking expensive fluke, Mr. Stone, and in ten minutes the air boss is going to be chewing on a bowl of Chinese stir-fry with a pound of chopped Polish sausage.” Capt. Buchelle had a reputation for being a tough, old-school aviator who believed it was a pilot’s duty to do everything under the sun to bring your bird back home. And it became obvious the moment you stepped in his office. Behind his desk hung a large, framed photo of the man back when he was a young lieutenant standing through the gaping hole in the starboard wing of the F/A-18 Hornet that he had nursed back to the USS Saratoga (CV 60) after surviving a hit from an Iraqi SAM during Operation Desert Storm in 1991.
“With all due respect, Skipper,” Cardona chimed in. “We all thought it was just a quarter-pounder.” He stated it with a completely impassive face while Stone grinned and Nova looked up from his writing.
“Go to hell, Master Chief,” Kowalski growled.
“Copy that, sir,” Cardona replied.
Amanda kept her eyes front and did not even twitch.
Looking over at Stone, Cardona added, “Does that mean I’m excused from your naval aviator party, sir?”
Stone sighed and nodded. “Thank you, Master Chief.”
“Aye, sir.” And he was gone.
Turning to all three pilots still standing at attention, Kowalski bellowed, “I want full written reports turned into Mr. Nova by 1500! No excuses! So, stop drinking my lattes and start writing!”
“Yes, sir!”
Kowalski then got right in front of Amanda. She could smell his cigarette breath. The man just loved those damn things.
“So, two ragheads point-blank and now you’re hot shit?”
“Two shots each, Skipper. Center mass. No way were those Iranian bastards getting their greasy paws on me.”
Kowalski exchanged glances with Stone and Nova, then he said, “They’re already calling you Quickdraw Diamante. God help us.”
“I prefer Deedle-Deedle, sir,” Stone chimed in.
Kowalski grinned. “I actually fucking love that! Deedle Diamante it is.”
She blinked. “What? Wait, I already have a call—”
“Want to fly again, Deedle?”
“Aye, sir!”
“Then go see Mr. Stone after you turn in your report. Maybe he’ll fix you up.”
“Aye, sir!”
The commander then turned his attention to Malloy, standing ramrod straight between Ricardo and Amanda.
“Mullet? What the fuck was that last pass with the canons? The helo was already away.”
“Ah, Skipper, I saw—”
“You saw what, Mr. Malloy? The chance of exposing yourself and my plane unnecessarily? Of getting your ass shot down so we had to deal with another downed pilot? A second lost bird? You know better than that!”
“I do, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“Yeah,” Kowalski said. “Me too.”
The commander turned to leave, but just before disappearing through the bulkhead, he looked over his shoulder at all three aviators still standing at attention and said, “Top-notch flying. Helluva fucking rescue . . . and great shooting. Dragon style.” And then he was gone.
— 9 —
THE REPUBLIC F-105D THUNDERCHIEF roared across the night sky, skimming the speed of sound as it flew a Route Pack 6 mission south of Hanoi, unloading twelve thousand pounds of violence from its internal bomb bay precisely where designated by the 338th Tactical Fighter Wing stationed at Korat Royal Thai Air Force Base in Thailand.
US Air Force Lieutenant Cord “Cordy” Macklin jerked the control column of the single-seater fighter toward him and cringed when seven Gs slammed him into his ejection seat as he pulled out of his bombing dive. The night ignited in red, yellow, and gold when the munitions detonated, flattening the jungle behind him, before the sonic boom reached his cockpit as his Thud shot above four thousand feet.
Macklin continued cringing, but no longer from the Gs, his blue eyes narrowing as he looked back at his target, and noticed no secondaries. No SA-3 missile sites or weapons depot, contrary to his briefing.
Just smoking more fucking jungle, he thought, egressing to the west and dropping back to the treetops to avoid getting picked up by a—
A trail of light rushed up from the jungle a couple of miles south of his target, coming straight for his cockpit at his eleven o’clock.
So that’s where you bastards were hiding , he thought as the missile warning light blinked on the control panel and an alarm whined inside his cockpit.
Macklin frowned. The brand-new SA-3s, a vast improvement in speed, range, and accuracy over the SA-2s, demonstrated how the North Vietnamese advantage in radar and missile technology had grown since the beginning of the war.
But not our countermeasures, he thought, cutting right to place the incoming SA-3 at ninety degrees from his Thud while dispensing chaff.
C’mon baby, TURN! he thought, gripping the stick and enduring another punishing maneuver as his body weight multiplied almost seven times.
The SAM went for the chaff, but the SA-3 was just too damn fast, preventing Macklin from achieving the required separation from—
The blast, blinding and deafening, shredded the empennage of the jet as the control column trembled in his hands and alarms blared in his cockpit. Reaching for the ejection handle, the young pilot pulled it harder than anything in his life.
An instant before the fire engulfed him—
CAMP DAVID, MARYLAND
PRESIDENT CORD MACKLIN SAT up in bed, his hands balled into fists that had been gripping the ejection handle, the orange glow of his burning jet fading away, replaced by the peaceful semidarkness of his bedroom, where Maria slept next to him.
Macklin inhaled deeply, trying to catch his breath, his heart hammering in his chest.
It didn’t matter how much time had passed since his being shot down; the memory remained burned in his mind. And while the president sometimes couldn’t remember what he had had for lunch the day before, he could recall every last damn second of those three days after splashing down in a rice paddy next to a small village.
He grinned, remembering the reason for the nickname given to the F-105, as his jet had made a loud thud sound when stabbing the same rice paddy a half mile from his position. The smile faded as he recalled the harrowing hours and days that followed, rushing through the jungle with the enemy relentlessly hunting him like a dog, until a hotshot Jolly Green helicopter pilot pulled him out of the bush, sparing him from an extended stay at the legendary Hanoi Hilton, the prison for—
“Can’t sleep?”
Macklin turned to see Maria on her side staring up at him.
Half-asleep, the first lady looked simply lovely in the half-light of the room, and Cord Macklin felt damn glad—and damn lucky—to be married to her.
Sitting up, she started rubbing his shoulders. “Same dream, honey?”
“Yeah,” he said, relaxing under her soothing hands. “You’d think by now my brain would have come up with something more recent. Sometimes I feel like it’s just stuck on the Vietnam War channel.”
She smiled. “It’s one of the ways you process stress,” she said.
He nodded. “At this moment, hundreds of pilots are risking their lives fighting a war we can’t seem to win . . . just like back in Nam.”
Macklin closed his eyes, remembering his conversation with Prost by the trout stream. “Hell,” he finally said, “maybe Hart is onto something with that secret team of his.”
She stopped and sat sideways to him, hands on her lap. “What was that all about?”
He stared at her. Even with her messy hair and no makeup, Maria’s beauty stunned him.
Taking her hands in his and kissing them, he asked, “You sure you want to know?”
“I’m a big girl, Mr. President. By now you should know I can handle anything you throw my way.”
Macklin knew that to be the truth. He had marveled at the way she had taken to the role of first lady, leading an initiative to help end childhood hunger, working the phones to ensure funding for her signature program.
“All right,” he said before sighing and adding, “short version is we’re tired of fighting Hydra.”
“‘Hydra’? Like in Captain America?”
Now it was Macklin’s turn to laugh. “Might as well be, but, no, we’re not on the trail of Red Skull.” He spent the next few minutes telling her about Prost’s task to pull together a fast-action team from the best assets in intelligence and operations—military and civilian—and reporting directly to him, who in turn answered only to Macklin.
“This time we’re going to make sure no more heads grow. Bastards don’t play by the rules, and neither should we.”
Her catlike eyes widened in obvious realization that such a directive bypassed the established cabinet protocols.
“Damn,” she said. “You sure about this? It could be considered illegal, even unconstitutional.”
“Sweetheart,” he replied, cupping her face before running his thumb over her lips, which she had twisted into a frown. “I’ve only been sure about four things in my life. Joining the Air Force. Running for office. Marrying you. And now this. That’s how sure I am.”
She blinked. “That’s . . . quite the statement, Mr. President. Nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“Enough to get me a midnight round with the hottest first lady ever?” he asked.
Maria smiled and rolled on top of him.
WHITEMAN AIR FORCE BASE, MISSOURI
LOCATED TWO MILES SOUTH of the quaint community of Knob Noster, Whiteman Air Force Base was home to the Northrop Grumman B-2 Spirit radar-evading Stealth Bomber.
The strategic multi-role aircraft was designed for medium-to-high-altitude target penetration at subsonic speed to avoid detection from the supersonic “boom” footprint, while relying on its stealth design to escape detection from enemy air-defense systems.
The B-2’s slate-gray flying wing resembled a gigantic boomerang with a sawtooth blade attached to the sleek trailing edge and a “beaver tail” mounted at its center. Officially called the “GLAS,” for gust load alleviation surface, the peculiar tail was used by an onboard computer to balance the aircraft when sensors detected vertical gusts.
The odd-looking radar-invisible bomber was capable of delivering conventional or nuclear munitions without refueling from a range of six thousand nautical miles. Staging from Whiteman, Diego Garcia, or Guam, it could cover the entire world with only one aerial refueling. Its four General Electric turbofans, buried deep in the flying wing, prevented radar waves from bouncing off the spinning turbine blades and propelled the bomber to a maximum speed of 550 knots and a service ceiling of fifty thousand feet.
A member of the 393d Bomb Squadron, 509th Bomb Wing at Whiteman AFB, Lieutenant Colonel Wendy Langston glared at the rain lashing the windshield as she settled into the left seat of the Spirit of Indiana. As aircraft commander, Wendy brought a lot of experience flying a variety of Air Force bombers. A graduate of the University of Oklahoma, her nickname had been inevitable: Boomer Sooner.
Major Dave Jacoby, a former football star at the Air Force Academy, made himself comfortable in the right seat.
“Hate this damn weather,” Wendy said, frowning.
“Copy that,” Jacoby replied.
On paper, the B-2 was an all-weather bomber, but Wendy remembered what had taken place in Guam in February 2008 when as a young captain, she had witnessed the Spirit of Kansas crash and burn on takeoff. The investigation stated that heavy rain had caused moisture to enter the skin-flush air data sensors used to calculate airspeed and altitude, prompting the flight-control computer to inject a sudden thirty-degree pitch-up maneuver while lifting the heavy bomber off the ground twelve knots slower than prescribed in the manual. The crew never had a chance to recover, as the ensuing stall that close to the ground caused the bomber’s left wingtip to stab the grass alongside the runway. Fortunately, they managed to eject just before the Spirit of Kansas tumbled and exploded when its fuel ignited, resulting in the total loss of a $1.4 billion asset.
Wendy forced the harrowing memory out of her mind and followed the checklist to bring the stealth bomber to life. Twenty minutes later, call sign Shadow 24 was ready to taxi. With permission from the control tower, she added power as the rain continued hammering the windscreen.
Approaching Runway 19, Jacoby received permission to take off. He glanced at Wendy and spoke over the aircraft intercom system (ICS), “Are you ready to go flying this lovely night?”
“Let’s roll,” she replied, scanning her instruments one last time and hoping like hell, as she did every time she took off in foul weather, that the engineers at Northrop Grumman had indeed solved the moisture problem for good.
Jacoby keyed his radio mic. “Shadow Two-Four is cleared, squawking, and rolling.”
She held her breath as the B-2 careened down the wet runway in a blur of wispy clouds, fog, and rain streaking across the armored windscreen.
“Here we go,” Wendy stated when they reached takeoff speed, and she nudged the control column back, lifting the nose for a few seconds before the Spirit of Indiana rose through the rain and immediately went in the soup, or IMC—instrument meteorological conditions—losing all visibility.
“Gear up,” Jacoby announced, and he secured the landing gear, while she kept her eyes glued to her instruments, steering the bomber along the precise departure flight path. They finally broke through the clouds, climbing above twenty-nine thousand feet into a clear night.
But the beautiful starry sky was lost on Wendy as she talked to the Boeing E-3C AWACS controller from the 552d AWAC Wing at Tinker Air Force Base, Oklahoma City. “Shadow Two-Four will go dark in thirty seconds.”
She then glanced over at Jacoby. “Nav lights out.”
He placed the three-position master mode switch in the go-to-war setting. The quadruple-redundant flight controls now operated in a stealth mode, the radio emitters were turned off, and the weapons systems were ready. The AWACS controller would note the stop squawk from the B-2 transponders that provided position and altitude to both civilian and military aircraft.
With its transponders off, the B-2 disappeared—literally ceased having any type of radar signature. Only two people now knew the whereabouts or the altitude of Shadow 24.
“Please tell me the damn computer is tracking,” she said, leveling off at 48,000 feet, well above commercial traffic, and engaging the autopilot.
“Like an Arkansas bloodhound,” Jacoby quietly chuckled. “Right on the money.”
JUST SOUTH OF GUATEMALA City, La Aurora International Airport served the majority of flights into and out of the country. A victim of mismanagement and stalled efforts at renovation, the airport struggled to meet the modern standards of travelers. However, three American airlines did fly there, and the airport was the fourth busiest in Central America.
Near the outer perimeter of the airport, far away from the wandering eyes of tourists and American airline pilots, sat an Antonov An-26 “Curl” twin-engine turboprop transport. The cargo area of the former Mali Air Force aircraft housed fifty oil drums, filled with a deadly combination of fuel, fertilizer, and roofing nails.
And less than forty miles away, at a private airport, an Antonov An-30 “Clank,” formerly of the Romanian Air Force, also had been transformed into a jihadist kamikaze bomber.
NEARING THE AURORA AIRPORT, Wendy and Jacoby began their final approach. This mission required surgical precision. Fortunately, flight operations did not take place overnight at the airport, and the radar would be shut down.
Wendy scanned the multiple screens of the Electronic Flight Instrumentation System (EFIS), confirming their position relative to the target. Seconds later, she released a single GBU-31 JDAM. The Joint Direct Attack Munition technology provided the 500 lb. weapon with integrated inertial guidance coupled to a GPS receiver, giving it improved accuracy over legacy laser-guided or imaging-infrared technology.
Dropping from one of the internal bays, it glided in a parabolic trajectory, striking the Antonov twenty-one seconds later. A large explosion licked the sky as the ordnance and the explosives inside the cargo plane detonated, lighting up the tarmac in pulsating waves of orange and yellow. The shock wave rattled the panoramic windows at the airport terminal, but no other damaged occurred.
“One down,” Jacoby commented over the ICS as lights and sirens wailed across the airport.
“Hope the bastards are sleeping in their planes tonight,” Wendy mumbled as she changed course for the private airfield, where a second JDAM obliterated the An-30 tied down at the edge of the ramp.
The pilots turned away from the column of flames casting a stroboscopic glare on the surrounding jungle and set a course north, across the Yucatan Peninsula and into the Gulf of Mexico.
And as the Spirit of Indiana rushed through the night sky completely undetected and approached the coastline south of Pensacola Beach, Florida, the crew members drank bottled water and looked forward to having breakfast at the Classic Cup Café in Kansas City, Missouri.
CAMP DAVID, MARYLAND
AT FIVE IN THE morning, President Cord Macklin followed the smell of bacon to the main room in the Aspen Lodge, where he found Hartwell Prost sitting by a window thumbing his phone and holding a steaming mug of coffee. He couldn’t wait to get his own.
