Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 03 Read Online Free PDF Page B

release pipper in the
middle. Cobb would offset the bomber to one side of the release cue line; then,
at the right moment, would turn and climb so as to “walk” the pipper up the
release cue line and eventually place the release cue cross directly in the
center of the aiming pipper. When the cross split the pipper, the bomb would
release—the hard turn would add “whip- crack” momentum to the bomb, allowing it
to fly farther than a conventional level release.
                It was all a very
computer-controlled and rather basic bombing procedure—hardly a difficult task
for a fifteen-year Air Force veteran bombardier. But sortie rates were down and
flying hours were being cut, and McLanahan and his fellow flight test crew dogs
were sniveling every flight they could. Except for a few high-value
projects—Dreamstar, ANTARES, the Megafortress Plus, the A-12 bomber, the X-35
and X-37 superfighters, and a few other aircraft that were too weird for words
and probably would never see daylight for another decade—research activity at
Dreamland had almost ground to a halt. Peace was breaking out all over the
world—despite the efforts of nut-cases like Saddam Hussein, Moammar Quaddafi,
and a few renegade Russian generals to disrupt things—and the military would be
the first to pay for the “peace dividend” that most Americans had been waiting
for at least the past five years.
                “T minus thirty seconds, final
release configuration check,” McLanahan announced. He quickly ran through the
final seven steps of the “Weapon Release—Conventional” checklist, then had Cobb
read aloud his heads-up display’s configuration readouts. Everything was
normal. McLanahan checked the crosshair placement on target, made a slight
adjustment, then told Cobb, “Final aiming . . . ready. My dark visor’s down.”
McLanahan told Cobb his dark visor was down because Cobb seemed never to check
around the cockpit, although McLanahan knew he did. “Tone on.” McLanahan
activated the bomb scoring tone so the ground trackers would know exactly when
the release pulse from the bombing computers was generated.
                “Copy,” Cobb said. “Mine too.
Autopilot off, TF’s off. Coming up on break ... ready ... ready ... now.” He
said it as calmly, as serenely as if he were describing a china teacup being
filled with afternoon tea—but his actions were certainly not dainty. Cobb
slammed the FB-111 in a tight 60-degree bank turn to the left and hauled back
on the control stick. McLanahan felt a few roll flutters as Cobb made minute
corrections to the break, but otherwise the break was clean and straight—the
more constant the G-forces Cobb could keep on the BLU-96, the more accurate the
toss delivery would be. Through the steady four Gs straining on every square
inch of their bodies, Cobb grunted, “Coming up on release ... ready ...
ready... now. Release button ... ready ... now.” McLanahan saw the flash of the
release pulse on his weapon control panel, but he jabbed the manual release
“pickle” button just in case the bomb did not separate cleanly.
                “This is CROWBAR, good toss, good
toss,” McLanahan heard on the command channel. “All stations, stand by . . .”
                Cobb had just completed a 180-degree
turn and had managed to click on the autopilot again when both crew members
could see an impossibly bright flash of light illuminate the cockpit, drowning
out every shadow before them. Both men instinctively tightened their grips on
handholds or flight controls just as a tremendous smack thundered against the FB-lllB’s canopy. The bomber’s tail was
thrust violently to the left in a wide-sweeping skid, but Cobb was waiting for
it and carefully brought the tail back in line without causing a roll couple.
                “Henry—you okay?” McLanahan shouted.
He could see a few stars in his eyes from the flash, but he felt