Free Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 06 by Fatal Terrain (v1.1) Page B

“The
exercise isn’t over as long as we’re inside the range, Doctor,” Kelvin Carter
said in a loud, excited voice, pulling his straps tighter and refastening his
oxygen mask in place with a quick thrust. “We accomplished the mission—all we
gotta do now is survive”
                 Masters
literally gulped on interphone. “You mean . . . you mean we’re going to try to outrun those fighters? Now?”
                 “We
didn’t brief an air-to-air engagement,” Samson pointed out. “We shouldn’t be
doing this.”
                 “Well,
go ahead and get us clearance for air-to-air,” McLanahan suggested. “We own
this airspace. Got it, Kel?”
                 “Rog,
Patrick.” Carter clicked open the range safety channel. “Saber One-One flight,
this is Sandusky . Wanna play?”
                 “ Sandusky , this is Saber leader. Roger, we’re in and
we’re in. Payback time for the bomber pukes. Phase One ROE?”
                 “Affirmative,
Phase One, we’re ready,” Carter replied. “Phase One” ROE, or Rules of
Engagement, were the safest of three standard aerial- combat exercise levels
with which all aircrews entering the RED FLAG ranges were familiar: no closer
than two miles between aircraft, no closure rates greater than three hundred
knots, no bank angles greater than forty-five degrees, no altitudes below two
thousand feet above the ground.
                 “Roger, Sandusky , this is Saber One-One flight of two, Phase
One, fight’s on.”
                 “I
don’t believe this, I don’t believe this,” Masters said excitedly. “Two
Lightning fighters are gunning for «j.”
                 “It’s
all part of the tactics of standoff attack defense, Jon,” McLanahan said. “If
you can destroy the missile’s carrier aircraft, you’ve destroyed the enemy’s
ability to launch more cruise missiles. Tighten your straps, everybody. General
Samson, get out of here, please.”
                 Carter’s
fingers flew over his instrument panel, and seconds later the electronic
command bars on Samson’s center multifunction display snapped downward.
“Terrain-avoidance mode selected, command bars are active, pilot,” he said to
Samson. “Let’s go, General!”
                 Masters
suddenly became very light in his seat, as Samson engaged the EB-52 bomber’s
autopilot and the big bomber nosed over toward the earth. The sudden negative
Gs made the young scientist’s head spin and his stomach churn, but he was able
to keep from blowing lunch all over his console as he tightened his straps and
finally managed to focus over his console toward the cockpit—and when he did,
all he could see out the front cockpit windows was brown desert. Masters could
feel his helmet dangling upward as the negative Gs threatened to float the
helmet right off his head, and he hurriedly fastened his chin strap and oxygen
mask.
                 “Thirty
miles and closing,” McLanahan reported.
                 “They
can’t see us on radar, right?” Masters squeaked on intercom in his high, tinny
voice. “Not this far out, right?”
                 “It’s
daytime, Jon—we’re sitting ducks,” McLanahan said. “Stealth doesn’t help much
if they can see you without radar. We’ve probably been leaving contrails,
too—might as well have been towing a lighted banner. We’ve still got fifteen
thousand feet to lose before they get in missile range. Clear right. Ready for combat mode.” Samson heeled the EB-52
bomber into a steep right bank, spilling lift from the bomber’s huge wings and
increasing their descent rate. He kept the bank in for about twenty seconds.
                 “Wings
level now,” Carter said. “Five thousand to level... command bars moving . . .
four thousand . . . three thousand . . . two thousand to go . . . command bars
coming