With the fighter’s attack radars in standby or in intermittent use, the B-2’s most powerful sensor was the ALQ-158 digital tail-warning radar, a pulse-Doppler radar that scanned the skies behind the bomber and presented a picture of the positions of the fighters as they prosecuted their attack. Each time the fighters began to maneuver close enough for a gun shot, McLanahan called out a warning and Cobb jinked away, never in a predictable pattern, always mixing sudden altitude changes in with subtle speed changes. Without their attack radar, the F-23 pilots had to rely on visual cues to decide when to open fire. If nothing else, they were losing points or wasting ammunition — at best, the B-2 might escape out of the MOA before the fighters closed within lethal range.
Plus, they had one more ace in the hole, but they were running out of time. “Guardian must be around here close to be blotting out the radios like this,” McLanahan told Cobb and Ormack, “but I have no way of knowing where he is. He might be only a few minutes away…”
“Fox three, Fox three, Raider Two-Zero, guns firing,” Mirisch cried out on the primary radio. The B-2 had finally remained steady for the first time in this entire chase, long enough for Milo to safely join on his wing and for Mirisch to get his first clean “shots” off at the big bomber’s tail. The B-2 had accelerated, really accelerated — it was traveling close to six hundred nautical miles per hour, much faster than he ever expected such a huge plane to travel.
Suddenly the threat scope fit up like a gaudy Christmas wreath. There was a powerful fighter radar somewhere up ahead, dead ahead, not a search radar, but a solid missile lock-on. A “Missile Launch” warning soon followed. It wasn’t coming from Milo — there was another fighter out there, and it was attacking them! His RHAWS was indicating several different threats in several different directions — surface-to-air missiles, fighters, search radars, at least a dozen of them. It was as if six VPVO sites and six “enemy” fighters had appeared all at once.
Mirisch had no choice. He couldn’t see his attackers, he had no radio contact or data link with GCI to tell him what was out there, he was less than two thousand feet above ground, and the loud, incessant noise of the jamming on all channels, bleeding through the radios into the interphone, was beginning to cause disorientation. He checked to be sure where Milo was — the kid had managed to stay in formation with him, thank God, and had not yet moved into the lead position — then called out on the emergency Guard channel, “Powder River players, this is a Raider flight, knock it off, knock it off, knock it off!”
Whoever was jamming him obviously heard the call, because the noise jamming stopped immediately. Mirisch leveled off at two thousand feet, waited until Milo was back safely in position on his wing, then scanned the skies for the unknown attacker.
He spotted it that instant. He couldn’t believe his eyes.
It was a damned B-52 bomber. But it was like no B-52 he had ever seen before.
As it banked right, toward the center of the Powder River MOA, Mirisch saw a long pointed nose, a rounded, swept-back V-tail, eight huge turbofan engines, and twin fuel tanks on each wingtip. But the strange bomber also sported a long wedge-shaped fairing on its upper fuselage resembling a specialized radar compartment, and… he saw pylons between the fuselage and the inboard engine nacelles, with what looked like AIM-120 air-to-air missiles installed!
“Lead, I’ve got a tally on an aircraft at our eleven o’clock high, five miles…”
“I see it, Two, I see it,” Mirisch replied. Dammit, Mirisch cursed to himself, why didn’t you pick that sucker up two minutes ago? But it was too late to blame anyone else. Whatever that plane was out there, it had “killed” them both. “I don’t know what the hell it is, but I see it.”
General Ormack strained against his shoulder harness to look out the B-2 bomber’s cockpit windscreens just in time to see the huge EB-52 Megafortress do a “wing wag” and then bank away to the north. “Jesus, what a beautiful plane. We could use a hundred of those.”
McLanahan laughed. “Well, it just sent those F-23s running, didn’t it? That thing is tailor-made for the Air Battle Force. You give every heavy bomber going in a Megafortress to provide jamming and air-defense support, you’ve got an awesome force.”
McLanahan and the other participants at the Strategic Warfare Center had been hearing about the EB-52 for weeks. Nobody had expected it to show up during the exercises. But it had, and McLanahan was right, it was awesome. It had a radome on its spine that had been taken off an NC-135 “Big Crow.” The radome could probably shut down all communications in and out of Rapid City. It certainly jammed everything the F-23s who’d been on McLanahan’s tail had on them. The plane also had capability of carrying twenty-two AMRAAMS — twelve on the wings, up to ten internally on a rotary launcher, including rear-fighting capability. Plus HARM missiles, TACIT RAINBOW antiradar missiles, rear-firing Stingers, Harpoon antiship missiles, conventional cruise missiles, SLAM and Maverick TV-guided missiles, Striker and Hammer glide-bombs, Durandal antirunway bombs…
General Brad Elliott had six such planes. One was under repair and two more were authorized.
They would revolutionize SAC and SWC.
The first instructor pilot to show up on Colonel Renaldo Tamalko’s orders that evening was twenty-three-year-old Lieutenant Jose Borillo, one of the newest and most energetic young flight instructors at Puerto Princesa; it was no surprise that an enthusiastic hotshot such as he reported immediately when the squadron recall was issued. The “old heads” usually answered the phone call right away — Sergeant Komos had all the phone numbers of the pilots’ mistresses and girlfriends as well as their home numbers — but took their time getting back to base. Colonel Tamalko paired Borillo up with Captain Fuentes, an experienced and competent but unmotivated weapon systems officer (WSO), and he took a relatively new WSO named Pilas with him as his backseater.
The maintenance squadron commander, Captain Libona, was also wide-eyed and enthusiastic as Colonel Tamalko made his way out to the flight line to inspect his jet and brief Borillo.
After the inspection and briefing, Tamalko asked Libona, “Did we get a confirmation that this wasn’t a drill?”
“No, sir. Sergeant Komos, who called you, hasn’t been able to get any confirmation at all. We’re assuming it is real.”
“Don’t be so sure. What about a confirmation on that Captain Banio, the Navy guy who alerted us? Anyone authenticate his identity?”
Libona shook his head. “No one’s been able to, sir…”
Tamalko let out a string of four-lettered words. This was either a really well-executed drill… or it wasn’t a drill at all. He sure as hell didn’t know. More than likely, it was a drill, but he still had to respond as if it wasn’t. After all, what with all the tension in the Spratlys…
Tamalko turned to Borillo. “Once we’re airborne, you leave your fucking finger off the trigger, hotshot, or so help me I’ll shoot you down myself. Stay on my wing, keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. If the Navy files a bad report because of you, you’ll be flying a garbage scow on Mindanao five minutes after you land. Now mount up and let’s see what the hell is going on out there.” Tamalko stomped off to do a fast walkaround, leaving Borillo and Libona in his wake.