Thirty-eight thousand feet above the Irish Sea, the Boeing B-52G Stratofortress bomber, whose call name was Red Dog two-niner, was about to complete the second leg of a twenty-five-hour-long mission. Eighteen and half hours ago, the aircraft had taken off from Barksdale Air Force Base, outside of Shreveport, Louisiana.
Manned by a crew of six, Red Dog two-niner headed due north on the first leg of its flight. It was over the northern tip of Greenland that it rendezvoused with a KC-135 tanker and took on 25,000 gallons of kerosene jet fuel. Over the frozen Arctic island of Spitsbergen, the B-52 initiated a racetrack-shaped course for eight hours. At this time they came to the very edge of Soviet airspace, patiently awaiting the “go” code that would send them on the mission for which the aircraft had been designed — the nuclear bombardment of the Soviet Union.
Captain Lawrence Stockton had made dozens of these alert patrols before. Only thirty years old, Stockton already had over 2,000 hours behind the controls of a B-52, and was presently Red Dog two-niner’s senior staff pilot. At his side in the cockpit, he had a rectangular black satchel marked with red stripes and the words Top Secret boldly emblazoned in big yellow letters. This was the Combat Mission Folder, or CMF, for short. It held the precise identity of their target, and could be opened only on direct orders from the President. Fortunately for all of them, a CMF had never been opened in the air; hopefully it never would be. For such an act would be contrary to the motto of the Strategic Air Command, which read, Peace is our profession.
As a veteran cold warrior, Lawrence Stockton understood sac’s role as a deterrent. As a B-52 pilot, he participated in only one leg of the so-called triad, which also included ground and submarine-based missiles.
Each of these delivery systems was developed to ensure that the United States could respond in case of a surprise nuclear strike by the Soviets.
In the event that such an unthinkable attack was to take place, Stockton’s mission was to deliver four hydrogen bombs to their targets. Each of these weapons was stored in the forward bomb rack and could produce an explosion equivalent to 1,000,000 tons of TNT. To give him a better idea of its true nature, it was once explained to Stockton that such a blast would be about seventy-five times stronger than that which destroyed Hiroshima.
When he was off duty back home in Louisiana, the Michigan State graduate tried not to think about his awesome responsibility. At such a time his family became the center of his life. Married for nine years now, he had three healthy children and another on the way.
Since his wife had been an Air Force brat, she understood the demanding nature of his work, and made certain that his time at home was as free from needless pressures and petty hassles as possible.
Only a few days ago, he had learned that with the conclusion of this mission, he was to be taken off the flight line and made command post controller. Though he loved to fly, this new ground position would be more like a nine-to-five job, and thus allow him a more stable home life. It would also give him a chance to take his family on a long overdue vacation. His kids had already picked Walt Disney World in Orlando. He didn’t dare veto them, and left instructions with his wife to begin accumulating the proper maps and guidebooks.
Satisfied that he was finally going to be able to spend some real quality time with his family, Lawrence Stockton anxiously looked up and scanned the dozens of dials and gauges on his side of the cockpit. To his right, his twenty-four-year-old copilot, Lieutenant Michael Ritter, was in the process of monitoring the instruments that he was responsible for.
“How are you holding up. Lieutenant?” quizzed Stockton lightly.
“Is your first real deterrence patrol all that you expected it to be?”
The copilot yawned before answering.
“It sure beats flying those simulators, sir. Although I must admit that I’m going to really enjoy getting some decent rack time.”
The pilot grinned.
“You’ll get used to it eventually. Of course, you could always call up Major Avila. I’m certain that he’d be more than willing to spell you.”
Major Pete Avila was their relief pilot, and was presently curled up in the rear of the plane reading the latest issue of Popular Mechanics.
“That’s okay, sir. I can handle it,” retorted the recent flight school graduate a bit more eagerly.
Stockton remembered well his own eagerness on his first mission, and wasn’t about to spoil his copilot’s first experience in the big leagues.
“We’re getting close to our final refueling point, Lieutenant.
All we need to do is top off our tanks, and then we can turn this eagle home to its nest. Why don’t you see if First Lieutenant Gener has our KC-135 on the scope yet.”
While the copilot initiated this call to Red Dog two niner navigator, the Boeing KC-135 Stratotanker that Lawrence Stockton had been referring to had just taken off from its nearby base at Mildenhall, England. Built around the same basic airframe as a commercial 707, the KC-135 was in reality nothing but a cavernous flying gas station. Though its mission was far less glamorous than the fighters and bombers that it was designed to refuel, the KC-135 Stratotanker was one of the most important platforms in America’s military arsenal. Without such dependable vehicles available to fulfill their mission, the range of the country’s strategic and tactical airborne response would be drastically cut back.
As the sleek tanker streaked across English airspace and headed toward the Irish Sea, its four-man crew settled in to their jobs. In the cockpit, Major Gene Aikens, a forty-five-year-old veteran of the Vietnam conflict, was at the controls, while Captain Paul Standish sat beside him as his copilot. In an adjoining cabin, the plane’s navigator, First Lieutenant Lee Rothman, charted the exact coordinates where they were to rendezvous with the thirsty B-52. In the rear of the aircraft. Master Sergeant Lou Moretti passed the time reading a two-day-old copy of USA Today. As boom operator, Lou would not begin his work until the initial rendezvous was completed. Only then would he continue on into the tail portion of the plane, where he would take control of the actual transfer of the fuel.
As the master sergeant scrutinized the sports page, he came across an article showing the results of the latest NFL draft. A decade ago, Lou had been an All-American defensive tackle for the University of Missouri Tigers.
During his senior year, he was scouted by the Dallas Cowboys, who were so interested in his potential that they actually made him an offer. Coach Landry had been a childhood hero of Lou’s, and the Cowboys were one of his favorite teams. Yet it was a prior commitment with the United States Air Force that kept him from accepting. As a participant in the ROTC program, Lou received assistance towards his tuition at a time when a football scholarship wasn’t available. So upon graduation, instead of beginning a career in the NFL, he began one in the military.
As it turned out, the Air Force had been good for him. Though he could have made more money playing football, his training was superb, and he genuinely enjoyed working with the service’s quality personnel. He was also soon to learn that above all, he loved to be airborne.
A slight case of nearsightedness kept him from going for his pilot’s wings. Instead he did the next best thing and qualified as a boom operator. This allowed him plenty of flying time and placed him as one of the elite few trusted to handle this difficult and demanding task.
What really bugged him, though, was the fact that today, a fellow could be both a professional athlete and in the armed forces at the very same time. Why, he had just read about a recent graduate of the Naval Academy who was allowed to do his duty aboard a ship from Monday through Friday, and then on weekends played professional football for the Raiders. In Lou’s day, such a thing was unheard of, and as far as he was concerned, it shouldn’t be permitted even now.