plugged his headset into a jack on the console.
'Shift supervisor A. Watt on console seven, ID number Sone-one-three-one, time two-three-one-seven local time.'
That was for the benefit of the continuously running tape that was monitoring all communications-the tape that would be used in an accident investigation.
'Dog Zero-One Fox is declaring an inflight emergency at this time,' came the hurried transmission. The voicepresumably the pilot, the one who had made the initial call-in to Seattle-was nearly drowned out by a thunderous noise in the background.
'It sounds like… waters A waterfall)' the controller murmured.
'He's depressurized, Ed,' the supervisor asked. 'It's windblast. A big one, too. If it's a depressurization, the noise should stop. If it's glass panel failure, it won't…'
The shift supervisor switched to a Center-wide intercom.
'This is Watt to all controllers. Clear airspace from radial two-six-zero to three-two-zero from Hoquiam VORTAC for inbound emergency aircraft in ten minutes. Advise Boeing McChord, Bowerman, and Portland of possible divertin emergency aircraft type unknown.
Advise McChord and Coast Guard search-and-rescue. Aircraft is currently on the two-eight-two degree radial from Hoquiam at one hundred an thirty nautical miles, flight level two-five-zero, groundspeed four-twenty knots.
Meanwhile, the first controller watched transfixed as the altitude readout of the emergency aircraft began to wind down.
'Zero-One Fox, are you encountering difficulty maintaining altitude?'
Through the roar in the background the pilot said, 'Seattle, descending below ten thousand feet… lost pressurization… fire on board… emergency!Emergency!Mayday!Mayday!' 'Understand, Zero-One Fox. We are clearing the airspace for you. If possible, turn left, heading two-eight-zero, vectors for emergency landing at Boeing Field, cleared to descend and maintain ten thousand feet.'
No reply. The altitude readout was winding down, faster and faster.
'TWenty thousand… eighteen thousand….. fifteen thousand.-Andy, rate of descent increasing….. passing through ten thousand feet Over the radio he said, 'Dog Zero-One Fox, climb and maintain ten thousand feet.
Acknowledge.
The noise of the windblast over the frequency all but drowned out any reply.
'Passing eight thousand… rate of descent slowing but he's still going down… passing five thousand low altitude warning!' Over the channel the controller said, 'ZeroOne Fox, climb. Pull up, pull up. If you're in a spin release your controls. Acknowledge…'
'Beacon target lost,' the supervisor asked. 'This is A. Watt plugged into console seven, local time two- three-two-zero, Seattle ARTCC.We have lost Dog Zero-One Fox on radar.
Last report from the pilot said he was descending to ten thousand feet due to inflight emergency, fire, and loss of pressurization. Rate of descent from flight level two-five-zero estimated at fifteen thousand feet per minute, slowing to approximately ten thousand feet per minute but mishap aircraft never regained altitude or appeared to level off.
No primary or secondary targets visible at this time. No flight data visible. No aircraft within sixty nautical miles of mishap aircraft noted. No emergency locator beacon transmissions yet received. Coast Guard and Air Force search-and-rescue forces have been alerted.
WASHINGTON, D.C. Several minutes later the President, still in the Oval Office with General Wilbur Curtis, took the message from Jeff Hampton that the FAA had lost Dog Zero-One Fox from radar, that the plane had experienced a major emergency and had plummeted twenty-five thousand feet into the ocean in less than two minutes.
The President forced his left hand steady as he replaced the phone receiver on its cradle. He looked at Curtis. 'Dog ZeroOne Fox has disappeared. Presumed lost a hundred and thirty miles off the west coast.
Curtis said nothing. Apparently too shocked, the President decided.
'How long can the Excaliburs stay in their orbit, General?'
Curtis checked his watch, made a fast calculation. 'They must leave in six hours to have enough fuel to reach Eielson with the necessary reserves. We'll have a tanker back in the first orbit area to give them extra fuel, but six hours is the most.
'Order them to depart the orbit area in five,' the President asked. 'I know it doesn't make much sense keeping them out there. They'd be sitting ducks if they tried anything, but at least it will make the Soviets nervous having two B-1s heading toward their backyard. We may even be able to bluff them into thinking those Excaliburs have more fuel and firepower onboard than they thought. It might even get them to negotiate for real The President's voice was flat. Who could blame him?He was still thinking of the Old Dog-thinking of another plan that had failed, and of the crew that would never come back.
He swiveled his seat around and stared, unseeing, into the gray, snow-covered world outside the Oval Office.
ABOARD THE OLD DOG
Dave Luger checked the master computer's clock on his TV display.
Weird, he thought. Watching a machine doing his navigation for him.
Playing a big 'video game' in the belly of a B-52 somewhere over the north Pacific.
Well, not exactly 'somewhere. 'With the GPS up and running, he knew within sixty feet where they were at any given moment-and the GPS measured those moments within one-hundredth of a second.
Luger plugged his nose and blew against the pressures I'valsalva,' designed to clear his ears after their hair- raising dive to 'disappear' from Seattle Center radar. 'General?'
'Go ahead, Dave,' Elliott said.
'Fifteen minutes to the decision point. 'Luger quickly called up a fuel reading on his video display. 'I've got us right on your updated fuel curve, Colonel.'
'Checks up here,' Ormack acknowledged.
'So we're not leaking fuel?' Wendy asked.
'Negative,' Ormack asked. 'At least there's some good news.
'Well, it's time we talked about the bad news,' Elliott said.
'This is what we're looking at. According to Patrick and Dave, and courtesy of those twelve navigation satellites feeding our computers information, we're fifteen minutes from a major decision point.
'We now have about thirty-four thousand pounds of fuel left. Thanks to that phony screaming-ass descent back there that had all those air traffic controllers buffaloed, and the hour long cruise at five hundred feet above the water, we'll soon be running on fumes. From our decision point ahead we can divert to Elmendorf Air Force Base in Anchorage and have about fifteen thousand pounds of fuel. That's the absolute minimum amount of landing fuel for a normal B-52.With this plastic monster of ours we can overfly Elmendorf and with favorable winds and a lot of luck divert again to Eielson Air Force Base in Fairbanks with about three thousand pounds remaining. That figure is significant because that's the normal tolerance of the fuel gauges we have-we can have six thousand at Eielson-' 'Or we can have zero,' Angelina said.
'Exactly But that plan does give us two available airfields to set this beast down on.'
'Is there another option?' McLanahan asked.
'Yes, Patrick. We can continue on our planned flig route.
The only available airfield with a halfway decent runway for us becomes Shemya in the Aleutians. Fuel reserve over Shemya would be about five thousand pounds.'
'Five thousand pounds?' Wendy asked. 'That's cutting it close. Are there any-T' 'There are other airfields nearby,' Elliott said, anticipating her question. 'All of them are shorter and narrower than Shemya, but we should be able to put down on any one of them. I bring up this option because Shemya has two things that we could use-a fairly isolated runway and fuel. We need the isolation if we ever hope to keep this plane and this mission secret.
