The evaluation is over.”
“We’re here to complete an emergency-procedures evaluation, Colonel,” the civilian said. “The curriculum calls for an engine-out.”
“I don’t need to see an approach,” Jamieson insisted, wiping sweat from his eyebrows and scowling at the stranger beside him, “and I designed the entire B-2A initial, recurrent, upgrade, and instructor training curricular don’t need you to tell me what it says.” The B-2A WST, or Weapon Systems Trainer, was the world’s most realistic simulator, and it often left its users exhausted and stressed after even a simple combat scenario. The stranger looked completely relaxed, Jamieson noted, with not a drop of sweat anywhere on his body. Either he was sedated or he had ice water for blood. “I got no doubts you can fly an approach, run a checklist, maybe even land the thing with one engine out, even though you’re not a B-2A pilot—or any kind of pilot,” Jamieson said. “You just don’t have what it takes to fly the Beak, period.” The civilian was taking Jamieson’s words pretty well—very little reaction, just sitting still and looking at nothing in particular.
The guy had just gone through an emergency-procedures scenario that would’ve killed most crewdogs, no matter how experienced they were. The sim operator had thrown in an emergency action message and a scramble launch—Jamieson hadn’t done that since his B-1B Lancer bomber days five years ago. They’d then had a complete failure of one of the B-2A’s primary hydraulic systems, and after a short but intense argument, they’d decided to proceed with the mission. The sim operator had thrown in what appeared to be a series of minor glitches, most of which were handled automatically by the B-2A’s sophisticated flight-control computers. In the end, on the bomb run, all those little malfunctions had turned out to be a staggering huge malfunction, one that threatened to scrub the mission or even force the crew to eject.
They hadn’t ejected—the stranger had handled all of the malfunctions. Jamieson had to admit (to himself only, of course) that he had no idea why the B-2A hadn’t just flipped over on its back and plowed into the ground, or hadn’t been cut to ribbons by the multiple layers of air defense weaponry that had been inserted into the scenario. Normally in an EP sim, when the action in the cockpit was getting too rough and the crew coordination was breaking down, the Sim operators would begin to reduce the outside distractions—they would flatten the terrain, improve the weather, or reduce the number of threats—so the crew had at least a chance to catch up and get some productive training out of the simulator session, even if they flunked the exam, It wasn’t realistic—the number of threats usually increased as the mission went on, not decreased—but it kept the session from being a total washout.
Not only had the stranger not flunked the exam, but the sim operator hadn’t reduced the number of threats.
They’d somehow made it to the target area, laying a string of bunker-busting 2,000-pound bombs on a command-post complex on the high-altitude pass, and a cluster-bomb attack on an air base and radar-site complex on the low-altitude run—and gotten all of their weapons off on time and on target. Jamieson didn’t know if they would be armed weapons—the MC was running so many damned checklists, juggling so many malfunction screens, and pulling and resetting so many circuit breakers that even Jamieson couldn’t keep up—but they had made their attacks and then actually departed the target area with at least two engines and all crew members still alive. That was more than most crews could claim if they had been loaded up as they had been. Returning to base was not a requirement in an emergency-procedures sim session.
“Listen, son, for a civilian, you’re a damned good student, and I think you’d make a great crewdog,” Jamieson went on, “but a B-2A flight-crew candidate has to attend twelve months of Air Force pilot school, spend five to seven years in combat strike aircraft, pass a screening program that accepts only one in two hundred applicants, attend a tough six-month B-2A combat-crew training course here at Whiteman, a six-month in-House qualification course, then spend at least two years as a B-2A pilot before upgrading to the right seat as mission commander. You’ve showed me a few things this morning that tell me you can handle a program like that.”
Stop trying to stroke the guy, Jamieson shouted at himself. This guy had done none of these things necessary to fly the Spirit. He wasn’t qualified, period. Sure he knew systems, and he knew the basics of flying, but that didn’t give him the right to play MC with a billion-dollar warplane.
“Any specific critique items, Colonel?” the guy asked quietly.
“A few—not that it makes any difference,” Jamieson replied.
“Go-no-go decision making was your biggest screw-up. A responsible, thinking crew never, never takes a primary hydraulic problem away from home plate. The plane’s too valuable; we have only ten of the damn things flying. If it’s a major bold-print malfunction item, bring it home and fight another day. We would’ve given you the engine-out approach right away if you had called the command post and brought the Beak back for landing like you were supposed to do. uld’ve sent you through the bomb run with only the electrical fault, and you would’ve possibly avoided the fighter attack because you would not have had the hydraulic failure or the split ruddervator. If you knew your tac doctrine, you’d know all that.” Jamieson didn’t remind the guy that they had somehow survived the fighter attack. A stealth bomber that wasn’t stealthy was a sitting duck for any air-superiority fighter-the MC had (again that word) somehow maneuvered the bomber so that it had survived the requisite two missile and two gun passes. Yes, they had been shot up, but they were still alive and still flying! The guy earned a big fat “atta boy” for his work. Unfortunately, Jamieson wasn’t the guy who was going to give it to him.
“Maybe the persons your mission is supporting need you over the target when you said you’d be there,” the civilian said. “Maybe they’re counting on you. Maybe lives depend on-“
“It’s not worth risking over a billion dollars’ worth of hardware, weapons, gas, and manpower,” Jamieson interrupted testily. “We’re heavy into flight safety here, son. There are always backups to every strike mission. No one plane is that valuable.”
“That’s not always the case, sir. They put four engines, four in dependent hydraulic systems, four independent flight-control systems, and four independent electrical systems on the B-2A for a reason: to continue the mission should one, two, or even three of them fail.”
“This is my critique of your performance, mister, not a debate.”
Jamieson interjected. “I’m explaining why you wouldn’t pass a check ride—we can talk about tactics and doctrine in Snobsters over a couple beers.” Snobsters was Whiteman’s old officers’ club, now the all-ranks, all-services casual bar. “You studied hard, son, and you got a good full speed-ahead attitude. It’s obvious you played on heavy bombers before, many, many years ago, but frankly, son, you don’t know shit about modern-day bombers. The days of swapping spares and using bubble gum and baling wire to keep a bomber in the air, no matter what, are dead and gone—and good riddance.
Today, the crew’s responsibility in the new Air Force is to monitor and manage systems. If things start going tits-up, you bring the beast home and go to your backup plan. You’re good, son. You’re a good systems operator …”
“So what’s the problem, Colonel?” the civilian asked, removing his headset and letting his longish blond hair hang loose in sweaty strands-aha, the guy’s not a friggin’ machine. He does sweat!