less than.'
'What he means,' McLanahan said, 'is that the SRAM is tighter than that virgin lieutenant Gary's been seeing.'
A conspiratorial snicker could be heard over the interphone.
'Thirty seconds to IP,' Houser announced. 'Defense?'
'Electronic warfare officer ready for IP inbound, pilot,' Mike Hawthorne replied. 'India-band radar is searching but hasn't locked onto us yet.'
'Gunner has back-up timing, radar,' Bob Brake, the crew gunner, replied. 'Fire control radar is clear. I'll get back on watch after the bomb run and get set for those Air National Guard fighters they told us about.'
'Twenty seconds to IP,' McLanahan announced.
'Better stay on watch, guns,' Houser said. 'Sometimes those Air National Guard guys get a little antsy. Remember last year's Bomb Competition they didn't wait for the bomb run to finish before they jumped us. The rules committee let them get away with it, too. Realism, you know.'
'Okay,' Brake said. 'I'll still be keeping backup timing until.1 see something.' He flipped some switches and returned to his small five-inch square tail radar display. At the tail of the huge bomber, the turret with four fifty- caliber machine guns slowly came unstowed and began a preprogrammed search pattern.
'Guns unstowed, system capable, radar-search, radar- track,' Brake reported.
'Ten seconds to IP,' Luger said. 'Next heading will be zero-one-zero. Airspeed three-five-zero true. Clearance plane five hundred feet.'
He turned to McLanahan. His partner had just removed his helmet and was rubbing his ears, then snapping his neck hard from side to side.
'What the hell are you doing?' Luger said.
'Loosening up, Dave,' McLanahan replied. 'My brain bucket is killing me.' Luger answered calls for his partner until the radar navigator finally put his helmet back on.
Houser's FCI slowly wound down. 'Coming up on the IP, crew… ready… ready… now!'
'Right turn, heading zero-one-zero, pilot,' Luger said. The huge aircraft banked in response.
'Boy, is it flat out there,' McLanahan said, studying the radar scope.
'Roger, radar,' Houser replied. 'I guess that means we're clear of terrain.' That information was important to Houser he was handflying the huge bomber only five hundred feet off the ground at almost six miles per minute. Houser used the EVS, or Electro-optical Viewing System, and terrain- avoidance computer to provide a 'profile' of the peaks and valleys ahead, but the best warning was McLanahan's thirty- mile range radar and his experience in guiding the huge bomber around trouble. The 'Muck'AMcLanahan's less- than-flattering nickname wasn't always by the book, but he was the best and Houser trusted him with his life. Everyone did.
'Ten degrees to roll-out,' Luger reminded the pilot. 'Drift is zero, so heading is still zero-one-zero. Radar, I'll correct gyro heading after roll-out. Pilot, don't take the FCI until it's displayed on the EVS scope.'
'We're IP inbound, crew,' Luger reported. 'Pilot, center the FCI and keep it centered. Pat, I'll check your switches when you'
'Pilot, airborne radar contact at two o'clock!' Hawthorne yelled suddenly over the interphone. 'Possibly an F- l5. Breaking apart now… there's two of them. Search radar on us… switching to target track… they've seen us.'
'Roger, E.W.,' Houser said. The fighter-intercept exercise area was still over eighty miles away, Houser thought. Hawthorne must be picking up signals from some other airplane engaging the fighters. He put the E.W. `s warning out of his mind.
Hawthorne tried to say something else, but he was quickly interrupted as the action of the B-52's bomb run began.
'Copilot, call IP inbound,' Luger said. McLanahan had switched off-sets and was now peering intently at a radar return that was almost obscured by terrain features around it.
'Pilot,' Hawthorne said nervously, 'this is not a simula- lion…'
'Glasgow Bomb Plot, Glasgow Bomb Plot, Sabre Three- three, India Papa, Alpha Sierra,' Martin radioed. In a small trailer complex located at a municipal airport fifty miles from the ground-hugging bomber, a set of four dish antennas swung southward. In a few seconds, they had found the speeding B-52 and had begun to track its progress toward the target on a mapping board. Other antennas began emitting jamming signals to the B-52's radar, and other transmitters simulated surface-to-air missile site tracking radars and antiair- craft guns. The scoring operator insured that they had positive lock-on, then turned to his radio.
'Sabre Three-three, Glasgow clears you on range and frequency and copies your IP call. India band is restricted. Do not jam India band radar. Range is clear for weapon release.' Just then, the scoring operator noticed two extra targets on his tracking display. He immediately called his range supervisor.
'They're at it again, sir,' the operator explained, pointing to the two newcomers.
'Those National Guard hot-dogs,' the supervisor muttered as he studied the display. He shook his head, then asked, 'Has the next competition plane called IP yet?'
'Yes, sir,' the operator replied. 'Sabre Three-three, a Buff out of Ford.'
'Ford, huh.' The supervisor smiled at the mention of the B-52's nickname. Once, decades earlier, calling a B-52 a 'Buff'Ashort for Big Ugly Fat Fucker was a sign of respect. Not any more. 'You got a positive track on the Buff? No chance of the fighters interfering with the bomb scoring?'
'I don't think so, sir.'
He thought for a moment, then shrugged. 'Let `em go. I like watching a duck shoot.'
'Yes, sir,' the operator said.
Mark Martin switched to interphone. 'We've been cleared onto the range, crew. Patrick, you're cleared for weapon release.'
'Rog, double-M,' McLanahan replied. He opened the plastic cover of the release-circuits-disconnect switch and closed the circuit. 'Let's go bombin'!' he yelled.
'India band restricted, Mike,' Martin called down to Hawthorne over interphone.
'Copy,' Hawthorne replied. 'Crew, we are under attack. Airborne interceptors at two o'clock and closing fast.'
'Mike, are you sure they're on us?' Houser asked.
'Positive.'
'Mark, switch radio two to the fighter control frequency and'
'We can't do that,' Luger said. 'We need both radios on plot frequency.'
'Well, we'll call the site and tell them to chase the fighters off the bomb range,' Houser replied, irritation showing in his voice. 'They can't do this.'
'Bob can take `em,' McLanahan said. 'Go get `em, guns.'
'You're crazy, radar,' the gunner replied. 'It'll mean maneuvering on the bomb run.
'Shoot the bastards down,' McLanahan said. 'Let's give it a try. If it gets dicey, we'll call a safety-of-flight abort.'
'Now you're talkin',' Brake said, turning to his equipment.
'Are you sure, Pat?' Houser asked. 'This is your bomb run.
'But it's our trophy,' McLanahan said. 'I say let's stick it to `em.'
'All right,' Houser replied, flipping switches on the center instrument console. 'I'm taking steering away from the computers.'
'The fighters are moving to four o'clock,' Hawthorne reported. 'They're staying out of cannon range so far.'
'Infrared missile attack,' Brake said, studying his tracking radar and waiting for the fighters to appear. 'Simulated Sidewinders.'
'Coming up on the SRAM launch point,' Luger said.
'We're going to need to maneuver in a few seconds,' Brake warned.
'I've got a safe-in-range light and missiles for launch,' Luger said. 'We can't maneuver until after these missile launches. Guns, give me a few more seconds… Tone!'
'Fighters now four o'clock, three miles and closing rapid- ly..
Luger pressed the MANUAL LAUNCH button. The missile computer began its five-second countdown. 'Missile
