switches when you get a chance. Where's my coffee cup?'
'D-two switch,' Luger called out, reminding McLanahan to find the manual bomb release 'pickle' switch. Luger's gloved fingers flew over the SRAM computer panel, repro- gramming it to take a final position update at the same time the B-52 flew over the bomb target.
'Why did this have to happen to us now,' Luger said. 'We ought to make a formal complaint about those fighters.'
'Relax, nay, relax,' McLanahan said. He was sitting back casually in his ejection seat, a contented smile on his face. Then, suddenly, he swept every chart, book, and piece of paper off his desk with a flourish.
'Hey!' Luger yelled across the compartment. 'What the hell are you doing.'
'Nothing partner, nothing,' McLanahan said with a grin. 'Everything's great.'
'Want me to reset the range-coordinate integrator?' Luger asked excitedly, beginning to pull off his parachute shoulder belts.
'No,' McLanahan said, loosening his helmet chin strap. 'No sweat. Stay strapped in.'
'How `bout I just give that damned stabilization unit a kick or something? Anything. Damn those fighters. They screwed up our chances for a trophy!'
'Cool out, nay,' McLanahan said.
Luger shot him a look. Had he gone off the deep end? Here they were, on an SAC bombing run with the Doppler on the fritz, and McLanahan hadn't even glanced at the radar scope since the computers failed.
Finally, McLanahan looked at the radar scope, studying it casually. 'Five right, pilot,' he said. 'Nay, how much time on your watch?'
'Coming up on sixty seconds,' Luger said. He was still looking at his partner in disbelief.
'Okay,' McLanahan said. 'Disregard your timingAit's at least seven seconds off. I'm dropping on release range and bearing. Subtract seven seconds from your timing just in case the radar scope goes out or something crazy like that.' He studied the radar scope again. 'Four more right, pilot.'
'Seven degrees right of planned heading, radar,' Luger reminded him.
'Not to worry,' McLanahan said. 'Check my switch positions and get ready for the overfly fix. Copilot, let me know as soon as you pick up any visual timing points. I know there's not many on this target, but do the best you can.'
'I'll try, radar,' Martin said. 'Nothing so far.'
'Okay,' McLanahan said. He smiled at Luger. 'Ready for the overfly fix, Dave?'
'I'm ready,' Luger said. 'But you're going.'
'Two more right, pilot,' McLanahan said. 'Bob, my man, where are those fighters?'
Fighters! Luger couldn't believe what he was hearing. His partner probably just had the worst of all possible things happen to him on a Bombing Competition sortie, and he was worried about fighters with less than a minute to bomb release.
'Clear for now,' Brake replied.
'Al radar is searching,' Hawthorne reported. 'They'll be around again in a minute.'
'Okay.' McLanahan said.
'Pilot, hold your airspeed,' Luger said over the interplione. 'It's drifting too much.'
'Relax, nay,' McLanahan said. 'We're going to nail this one.'
'Nine degrees right of planned heading,' Luger said, nervously studying his own five-inch scope. He glanced over at his partner. McLanahan was lounging back in his seat, toying with the pickle switch in his left hand.
'1 missed the final visual timing point, radar,' Martin said. The crew was suddenly very quiet everyone but McLanahan.
'Okay, double-M,' he said. 'Thanks anyway.'
'I'm going to bypass this overfly fix, radar,' Luger said. They were going farther and farther off course, and McLana- han wasn't doing anything about it.
'Take this fix, nay,' McLanahan said, his voice suddenly quiet. He gave Luger the thumbs-up signal.
'But.
'Don't worry. nay,' McLanahan said. 'I have a feeling about this one.'
Luger could do nothing else but comply. He called up the target coordinates~ checked them, and prepared for the fix.
'Pilot, I want you to just caress that left rudder,' McLana- han said. He leaned forward a bit, staring at one of the seemingly thousands of tiny blips tracking down his scope. 'One left. Maybe a half left.'
'A half a degree?' Houser said.
'Just touch it,' McLanahan urged quietly. 'Ever so gently… a little more… just a touch more… hold it. That's it… still zero drift, nay?'
'No Doppler,' Luger replied. 'The winds and drift are out to lunch. So is the ground speed and backup timing. I'm working strictly off true airspeed and last known reliable winds.' Luger shook his head, bewildered. What was going on? Was McLanahan doing all this for show? Christ, they were eight degrees off heading!
'Okay. Never mind. I forgot. Coming up on release, nay… stand by.
Luger looked over at McLanahan's radar. The cathode-ray tube was a mass of arcs and spokes driving through it from the jamming. How could his partner see anything in that mess? McLanahan reached down and flicked the frequency-control knob, and thespikes and streaks of jamming cleared for a few seconds. He smiled.
The D-2 switch was nestled gently, casually, between McLanahan's fingers, his thumb nowhere near the recessed button. 'Caressing that rudder, Gary?' was all he said.
Suddenly McLanahan's thumb flashed out, too fast for Luger to see it, and the BRIC flashed once as the last bomb fell into space. Luger counted three seconds to himself and pressed the ACQUIRE button on the SRAM computer. Three seconds after bomb release, at their altitude and airspeed, should put them right over the targetAif McLanahan had hit the target.
To Luger's immense surprise, the green ACCEPT light illuminated on the SRAM panel.
'It took the fix,' Luger said, his voice incredulous.
'We nailed `em, guys!' McLanahan shouted.
'Sure, sure,' Luger said. McLanahan was carrying the act a little too far. They were eight degrees off planned heading and seven seconds short of planned timingAthat equated to at least a ten-thousand-foot miss, and probably even a worse missile score. The bad present position update, combined with the bad velocities the SRAM computer would derive from the fix, would nail the lid down on Bomb Comp for crew E-0SAwith them inside the coffin. 'Tone!' The high-pitched radio tone came on.
Luger flipped the AUTOMATIC LAUNCH switch down.
'Missile counting down… doors are already open… missile away. Missile two counting down. missile two away. All missiles away. Doors coming closed…'
'Missile away, missile away,' Martin called to the bomb scoring site.
'Very good, boys,' McLanahan said, finally opening his eyes. 'Nay, you have nayigatiOn. I'll call post-release informa- tion, and then I'm going to take a piss. Guns, don't let us get shot down. Not now, after all that work.'
'Go take your piss, radar,' Brake replied. 'You're as safe here as if you were in your mother's arms. Or Catherine's arms. Whicheyer.'
'Wait a minute, radar,' Houser said. 'Before you un- strapAwhich, I might add, is illegal as hell while we're low- level but par for the course for youAhow about those releases? How far off track were we?'
'Not sure,' McLanahan replied. 'Might have been two or three hundred feet.'
'Keep dreaming,' Martin said. 'It looked close, but not that close.'
'C'mon, really,' Houser said.
'I took into account all the turns and the changes in airspeed,' McLanahan deadpanned. 'I was waiting for the Doppler to go out, you know. I knew it would.'
'Case of beer says you pitched it long,' Martin said. 'Thanks for the confidence, double-M,' McLanahan re- plied, 'but you're on.' He turned to Luger. 'What do you think, nay?' he asked.
'I think… I think you're way off, radar,' Luger said.
Martin laughed. 'Want to call it off, radar?'
