two.”
Jamieson took a deep breath as he clicked the button and brought up the next slide. Man, this was a total waste of his time, he thought. The VIP looked disinterested and distracted, as if thinking about a hundred things happening thousands of miles away.
Probably already has his report written, Jamieson concluded.
“This morning, after showing you around the base a bit,” he went on, “we will present an overview of the 509th Bomb Wing organization, a briefing on current and near-future technology, then present standard flight mission planning profile in the-“
“Colonel, we can stop this right here,” General Samson said, holding up a hand. “Tony, I apologize. I’ve had to lead you on a bit. My orders were to conceal the real purpose of this visit as much as possible using my own discretion, so I made this visit look like a VIP tour. It isn’t.” He motioned to the civilian seated beside him and said to Jamieson, “Tony, I want you to give this gentleman a full B-2A emergency procedures simulator check ride.”
Jamieson nearly dropped his jaw in surprise. Was this some kind of joke? “Of course, sir,” Jamieson responded sarcastically.
“Give a check ride in the B-2A stealth bomber to a civilian. Not an orientation ride, but a check ride. Yes, sir.” He turned to the stranger with an amused grin and asked, “So. How did you do on your open-book and closed-book exams, sir?”
“I think I did pretty good, Colonel,” the VIP replied, in a deep, monotone voice, opening his briefcase.
Jamieson scowled at the guy’s smart-ass comeback, then laughed as if dismissing the thought of this guy passing a B-2A bomber crew-member exam. But all traces of humor disappeared when the VIP picked out a folder with a red TOP SECRET cover sheet on it, and extracted a single sheet of paper—a 509BMW Form 88, “B-2A Record of Aircrew Training and Performance.” Jamieson examined the form with a dumbfounded expression, then muttered, “What is this shit?”
“It’s all genuine, Colonel,” the VIP said, as if reading Jamieson’s mind. He had indeed finished his open-book and closed-book exams, with near-perfect marks, along with a 100 on a “bold print” emergency procedures test, a complete publications inspection—this guy apparently had a complete and up-to-date set of B-2A tech orders, including the classified ITO-B-2A-25-1 weapons-delivery manual—an oral exam, and a complete Class 1 flight physical and psychological stress exam. He was even certified under the Personnel Reliability Program, the program used to certify any person who had responsibility for nuclear weapons or components. A few of the sign-off blocks had been blacked out so he couldn’t read who the evaluator was, but all of the other blocks were signed off by Eighth Air Force Standardization/Evaluation instructors, with General Steve Shaw himself, the four-star commander of Air Combat Command, in charge of all Air Force combat air forces, as the final approving authority.
“Yeah, right. And I’m the Prince of fucking Wales,” Jamieson snapped. He swung around to Samson and tossed the form on the table. “What’s going on, General? Who is this guy? Why is Eighth Air Force Stan/Eval signing him off?”
“Tony, I’ll answer all the questions you have … later …
maybe,” Samson said. “But all your questions will be moot if this gentleman can’t fly. I need you to give him an EP check ride.”
“Excuse me, Sir. I don’t know what’s going on here, and I don’t think I care to know, but if you’re asking me to ‘pencil-whip’ this guy, General, ask someone else,” Jamieson said firmly. “We got standards to follow.”
“I’m not asking you to sign him off if he doesn’t know the procedures, Tony,” Samson said. “If he’s not qualified, I want to know about it.”
“He’s not qualified then, Sir,” Jamieson said resolutely, refusing to be bullied by the hulking three-star general before him. “All B-2 crew members must be U.S. Air Force pilots with at least one thousand hours’ jet flight time, they must be selected by the 509th wing commander and the commander of Air Combat Command, and they must be graduates of B-2A Combat Crew Training here at Whiteman. I help screen and select every B-2 bomber candidate, and I personally know and fly with every graduate from the 4007th CCTS. I don’t remember seeing him.”
“Tony, I want you to evaluate this gentleman as if he were fresh out of CCTS and ready to undergo unit mission-ready qualification,” Samson said evenly. “General Wright has already certified him as ready to begin unit certification—it’s your job to evaluate his readiness to certify him mission-capable.”
Jamieson glared at Wright, who remained impassive. Tom Wright obviously knew much more about this little con game than he had let on, and he had not shared his knowledge with his old friend and long-time wingman. Either Wright was turning into a true mindless staff weenie, or this was really heavy shit going on with this stranger. “But the fact remains, Sir,” Jamieson went on, “that I know lie hasn’t been through CCTS. If I continue, I’ll be knowingly violating the law. Are you asking me to do that?”
“The fact is, Colonel,” Samson said, “that he has been through initial B-2 flight training—I can’t tell you which one, that’s all.”
“But there’s only one initial B-2A flight training school, Sir.”
“No, there isn’t, Colonel,” Samson emphasized, “and that’s all I can say about the matter. Now get out your scenario book and the rest of your evaluator shit and give this man an EP check ride, and do it quietly.” The argument ended right there, with Samson shooting an angry glare into Jamieson’s brain. The newcomer was quiet, keeping his mouth shut and his eyes averted through this discussion.
They took a break for a half hour while Jamieson brought in the materials for an emergency-procedures simulator examination—one simulator was already set up for the evaluation, he learned—and when he was ready, he began briefing the mission profile. It was a simple profile: preflight, taxi, takeoff, an aerial refueling, a high- altitude bomb run, a low-attitude bomb run, and return to base—although these check rides never ended up looking anything like the briefed profile. The simulator instructors—there was only one man on the simulator console today, a civilian Jamieson had never seen before—could insert hundreds of different malfunctions and emergencies into the scenario at any time.
The EP check ride concentrated mostly on “bold print” and warning items, which were actions that each crew member had to commit to memory perfectly and execute flawlessly. EP check rides were the most demanding. A bust in any “bold print” or “warning” action or more than one or two busts in a less-serious “caution” action meant instant flight decertification. Few new guys ever passed an EP check ride the first time, and even experienced crewdogs who didn’t keep up with their studies had trouble on “no-notice” checks.
When Jamieson finished briefing, the stranger got to his feet and began to give the mission commander’s portion of the flight briefing. “Hold it,” Jamieson interrupted, totally caught off guard, “you don’t have a part to brief in this scenario. You fly the profile and-“
“I’m your MC on this flight, sir,” the newcomer responded, in a deep, rather reserved but no-nonsense tone of voice. The MC, or mission commander, on a B-2A stealth bomber acted as copilot, offensive-systems officer, and defensive-systems officer, although either pilot could complete the mission alone in an emergency.
“The MC always briefs his actions on takeoff and the route of flight-“
“When I need you to give me something, mister, I’ll tell you-“
“Let him brief, Tony,” General Wright said. “We want to hear this.”
“Thank you, sir,” the stranger said immediately. “I’ll be briefing the mission commander’s portion of the emergency-procedures simulator flight check. I’ll be evaluated on three main areas: knowledge of all procedures and tech order directives; performance as mission commander during normal and emergency situations; and Performance as the flying crew member during emergency situations. Since Colonel Jamieson didn’t give one, let’s start off with a time hack”
Without seeming to notice or care about Jamieson’s protests, the guy launched into a standard crew briefing, outlining his responsibilities, the mission timing, the route of flight, the attack route, the assigned targets, alternate landing bases, and his actions during all critical phases of flight. He completed the preflight briefing competently and succinctly—he clearly knew his stuff.
Jamieson was amazed. The guy was obviously a former bomber crew member, with a lot of experience in many different combat aircraft, and he knew very technical and detailed information on the B-2A stealth bomber and current attack procedures. He had no detectable accent—not New England, not southern, not Texas, not midwest. Who was he? Why hadn’t Jamieson ever heard of him?
Samson thought of the U.S. Air Force’s tiny fleet of B-2A stealth bombers as his own personal responsibility, almost his personal property, so no one was going to go up in one unless Tiger checked him out first. Besides, it
