Without another word they turned their backs to the flight line and headed back to the officers’ quarters hidden in the trees beyond. They shut themselves in her quarters, and Maraklov gave himself up to the remarkable skills of this woman who exorcised all his earlier doubts and made him, for the moment, even forget about DreamStar …
Over the Caribbean Sea
“She’s about as maneuverable as an elephant,” J. C. Powell said irritably, “and five times as heavy.”
Powell and McLanahan had just completed their second refueling from a KC-10 Extender refueling aircraft from the 161st Air Refueling Group “Sun Devils” out of Phoenix, the same unit — and, in fact, the same crew — that had refueled Cheetah just in time after their flight through Mexico. They were now at twenty thousand feet, still flying in tight formation with the tanker, so close that on radar screens from Texas to Florida to Cuba to the Cayman Islands to Jamaica they seemed like one aircraft — which was what they wanted.
J.C. had the throttles at full power to keep up with the KC-10, but after a few minutes the KC-10 pilot noticed the trouble the loaded F-15 fighter was having and backed off on its power. There was plenty of reason for Cheetah’s sluggish performance. In addition to sixteen-hundred-gallon FASTPACK fuel tanks near each wing root, Cheetah carried an AN/ALC-189E reconnaissance pod mounted on the centerline stores station. The two-ton recon pod carried four high-speed video cameras that pointed forward, aft and to each side, along with data transmission equipment that allowed the digitized imagery from the cameras to be broadcast via satellite directly back to Dreamland for analysis. On each wing Cheetah also carried a 600-gallon fuel tank, which normally gave it a cruising range of nearly three thousand miles.
That cruising range was considerably shorter with the recon pod mounted; it was even shorter with Cheetah’s other special stores: two QF-98B Hummer electronic drone aircraft, small single propfan-engined aircraft that carried several computer-controlled radar jammers. The two Hummer drones, one mounted on each wing, were preprogrammed to follow a specific flight path after being released. They carried no weapons. Their flight paths would take them close to known Nicaraguan and Soviet early warning radar sites, where their jammers would disrupt the radars long enough for Cheetah to make its run toward Sebaco. After flying close to the coastal radar sites, the drones would fly northeast toward recovery ships near Jamaica — if they survived the expected Nicaraguan air defenses.
“You boys sure go around looking for trouble,” the pilot of the Phoenix-based tanker said over the scrambled VHF radio. “Twenty-four hours ago I thought we’d all be in the stockade. You must lead charmed lives.”
“We found a few regs we haven’t violated yet,” J.C. said.
“You’re coming up on your start-descent point,” the nav on the KC-10 said. “One minute.”
“Time for one more fast sip before you leave?” the pilot asked.
“I think we’ve had enough,” J.C. said. “Thanks for the gas.”
“Thank your boss for getting us out of trouble with the brass,” the pilot said. “I saw what was left of my retirement flash before my eyes. You boys take it easy down there. Sun Devil starting a climbing left turn. Out.” The KC-10 wagged its wings once, then began a steep left turn and a sharp climb, heading toward its destination in San Juan.
“Nav computer set on initial point,” McLanahan reported. On J.C.’s laser-projection heads-up display a tiny “NAV” indicator flashed on the screen, indicating that the computer was directing a turn. J.C. hit the voice-command switch on his control stick.
“Autopilot on, heading nav.”
“Autopilot on,” the computer-generated voice replied. “Heading nav mode. Caution; select altitude function. “ The computer reminded J.C. that no autopilot function had been selected for holding altitude. Cheetah started a right turn, heading southwest.
In the aft cockpit McLanahan was completing his checklist items for drone release. “Release circuits safety switch to consent,” he told Powell. J.C. flipped a switch far down on his left instrument panel.
“Release switch to CONSENT.”
“Checklist complete. Stand by for drone release.”
“Ready up here.”
“Clear for zero-alpha maneuver,” McLanahan said.
J.C. pushed forward on the stick and throttles. As the speed increased and pitch decreased, the angle of attack, the difference between the wing chord and relative wind, moved to zero — this was zero alpha; the wings were knifing through the air with minimum disturbance or deflection, giving the cleanest airflow for the two drones to separate from Cheetah and begin their flight.
“Zero alpha … now.”
At that moment McLanahan hit the release button. Remote-controlled clips on the drone’s carrying racks opened, and the drones began flying in formation with Cheetah.
“Showing two good releases, clear to maneuver,” McLanahan announced.
“Here we go.” Powell gently, carefully pulled back on his control stick, and the drones dropped away from sight. J.C. did not yank Cheetah away; the sudden turbulence could throw the drones out of control. He eased back on the stick, allowing the distance between mothership and drones to increase slowly.
“Showing good autopilot program-startup on both drones,” McLanahan reported. A few moments later they saw both drones banking away to their right as they began their computer-controlled flights.
“Drones are clear to the right.”
“Got ‘em.” J.C. verified. He watched the drones for a moment to make sure they were far enough away, then said, “We’re goin’ down.” He hit the voice-command stud on his stick. “Autopilot attitude hold.”
“Attitude hold mode on,” the computer acknowledged.
J.C. pressed the pitch-select switch on the control stick and pushed. Cheetah started a twenty-degree descent. When he released the select switch, the autopilot held the pitch angle.
“Overspeed warning,” the computer announced. J.C. pulled the throttles back to seventy percent to avoid overstressing the recon pod and external fuel tanks as Cheetah approached the speed of sound in the steep descent.
“Autopilot altitude select two hundred feet,” J.C. commanded.
“Autopilot altitude command two hundred feet.”
“We should be entering early-warning radar coverage in a few minutes. We need to be down below two thousand feet by then.”
“No sweat,” J.C. said. “We’re descending fifteen thousand feet per minute. This baby feels like a real jet with those two loads gone.”
Suddenly a tiny indicator blinked on a newly installed panel in Cheetah’s aft cockpit. “Radar-warning indicator from one of the drones. Some radar’s got them. He’ll start jamming any minute.”
“We’ve got five thousand feet to level-off at two hundred feet,” J.C. said. “We should be ready.”
And Cheetah did level off as planned. By the time it reached the San Andres y Providencia Atoll east of Nicaragua, they were at two-hundred feet above the Caribbean, traveling five hundred miles an hour. The Nicaraguan early-warning radar site at Islas del Maiz, fifty miles off the coast of Nicaragua, never had a chance to see the sea-skimming aircraft. Cheetah’s automatic jammers activated once when the radar site was only a few miles away, but the Russian-built radar did not lock on or reacquire the aircraft. Fifteen minutes after passing the island radar site Cheetah was over the marshy lowlands of the east coast of Nicaragua.
“Where’s all this Russian hardware the Nicaraguans are supposed to have?” J.C. said.