antiaircraft artillery weapon system, a mobile unit with four 23-millimeter radar-guided cannons that could fill the sky with thousands of shells per minute out to two miles away — deadly for any aircraft.
“That’s our target, crew,” the OSO stated. He put his cross hairs on the Zeus closest to the preplanned target area. “Action left forty-five.” When the pilot rolled out of his turn, the OSO took a radar patch on the target. “I got the patch. Steering to the target is good. Give me full blowers, Rodeo!” The pilot shoved the throttles back into max afterburner, and a few seconds later they broke the speed of sound.
“Bandit now at nine o’clock, ten miles and closing!”
“Stand by… bombs away!” the OSO yelled. The CBU-87 cluster bomb scored a direct hit.
“Zeus-23’s still up,” the DSO said.
“Forget about it, Long Dong,” the pilot interrupted. “Where’s my steering?”
The OSO called up the last target in the third restricted-area bombing range. “Steering is good,” he said. “Single Scud-ER transporter-erector-launcher with communications van. Supposed to be tucked in between some hills. Max points if we get this one, guys — it’s worth more than all the other targets put together. Gimme a little altitude so I can see into the target area.”
“Scope’s clear,” the DSO immediately reported.
It was clear to see why the OSO needed some altitude. The pilots couldn’t see much more than a few miles ahead, and if they couldn’t see, the radar could see even less. They were several seconds late too, and the faster speed meant even less time to spot the target. “Get ready for a vertical jink,” the pilot said. He reset the clearance plane switch to one thousand feet, and the bomber responded with a steep climb.
“I got… squat,” the OSO reported. The cross hairs went out to a large section of blackness. There were no radar returns yet in the target area. His hesitant voice infuriated the pilots even more. “ADF a one-three-five track, pilots. Clear back down.”
The pilot released the pitch interrupt trigger, and the bomber settled back down to its roller-coaster ride just two hundred feet above the blurred earth zooming by. “You got the target?” he asked.
“Not yet,” the OSO responded. “The radar predictions said we won’t see the targets until four NAP if we stay low — we’d need to go up to two thousand to see it sooner. Let’s get back on planned track, and then give me another jink so I can get a better—”
“Bandits!” the DSO interrupted. “Eight o’clock, fifteen miles and closing! I think it’s an F-14—no,
“I’ll lose my look down the canyon!” the OSO objected. But the pilot rolled into a hard ninety-degree bank turn, rolling out just far enough to track perpendicular to the fighter. “Reverse as fast as you can!” the OSO said. “I need one last look down that canyon!”
“Clear to turn back!” the DSO said after only a few seconds. The pilot started a right turn. “Trackbreakers active! Bandits never turned. They’re nine o’clock, nine miles.”
“Give me a vertical jink now!” the OSO said.
“Negative!” the DSO interjected. “We’ll be highlighted against the horizon! If the fighter gets a visual on us, he’s got us!”
“I need the altitude!” the OSO cried. “I can’t see shit!”
“If we climb, he’ll spot us!” the pilot protested.
“Then center up!” shouted the OSO. “I’ll try to get a lock close-in.” He knew he’d have only seconds to see the target on radar before bomb release.
Sure enough, as they closed in on the target, all he could see on the digital radar screen was dark green, interspersed with flecks of white. The terrain was shadowing every bit of ground radar returns. Nothing showed up on the MTA display — no moving targets at all.
“Twenty TG,” the OSO said. “Action left thirty. I need one thousand feet, pilot, and I need it
“All right,” the pilot said. “You got about five seconds.” He spun the clearance plane switch and they climbed. “You get your fix, Long Dong?”
The last climb did it. The cross hairs fell on a lone radar return in the very southern edge of the gully. When the pilot rolled out of the turn, the OSO snapped a patch image of the last target. “Got it! Steering is good!” he said. Damn, what a relief. His cross hairs were nestled right over a long, thin target, small and partially hidden. Magnifying the radar image showed a definite Scud transporter-erector-launcher on the move. A small, mobile target — max points if they hit it. “Let’s nail this sucker! Fifteen TG! Ten… doors coming open… five… bombs away!” The pilots could see the target, a white trailer with an old sewer pipe strapped atop it, configured to look somewhat like a Scud missile. “Doors coming closed…”
“We got it!” the copilot shouted happily. “We nailed it!”
“Let’s start a right turn to two-four-three,” the OSO said.
But just as they zoomed past the target area and crossed over the southern edge of the gully, a flurry of smoky SAMs filled the sky. “I’ve got SA-3s, SA-6s, SA-8s, and triple-A all around us!” the DSO shouted. “
The B-1 snap-rolled to the left so hard that the OSO’s head hit the right bulkhead. Then he was thrown forward as the bomber quickly decelerated. He cried out in pain, his vision swimming with stars.
The pilot threw in forty degrees of bank and pulled on the stick to 2.5 Gs — almost tripling their weight — then pulled the throttles to idle to slow to cornering velocity.
“C’mon, Rodeo, turn!” the OSO shouted. “Pop the brakes! Go to ninety degrees bank!”
“We’re restricted…”
“We’re gonna get hosed if you don’t get that nose around, pilot!” the OSO said. “Pop the brakes! You’re VMC. Go to ninety degrees bank!”
“Speedbrakes coming out,” the pilot shouted on interphone, then flipped the speedbrake OVERRIDE switches and thumbed them to decelerate even faster. The “scram” maneuver was an emergency turn designed to get away from ground threats as quickly as possible. It meant instantly slowing the B-1 bomber to cornering velocity, a speed that increased the turn rate but wouldn’t normally sacrifice controllability.
“SA-8! Zeus-23! Eight o’clock, lethal range!” The electronic countermeasures system was ejecting chaff and flares as fast as possible, but the threats stayed locked on. The sky was suddenly filled with white lines — smoky SAMs, dozens of them, flitting around them like bees around a hive. Several of the little paper rockets hit the Bone, though there was no way they could do any actual damage — they weighed less than two pounds and were as fragile as a toy.
The pilot kept the back pressure on his control stick right at 2.5 Gs until the bomber had decelerated to their planned cornering velocity, then shoved the throttles to max afterburner. The maneuver worked. By the time he had plugged in the afterburners, they were headed virtually in the opposite direction. He pushed the control stick right to roll wings-level and thumbed the speed-brake control to retract the speedbrakes so they could recover their lost airspeed…
… except that the bomber never rolled upright. They were still in a steep bank. “Damn! Damn! Damn!” the pilot kept shouting. “What’s happening here?” The TERFLW FAIL warning tone sounded, a continuous low tone signaling that the terrain-following system had failed. The system automatically performed a 3-G fail-safe pull-up, designed to fly the bomber away from the ground — but if it was in a steep bank angle, a fly-up would drive it into the ground unless the pilots intervened quickly. “
“Get the nose down! Airspeed!” the copilot shouted as he grabbed for his stick. He tried to move it, but the bomber would not respond. He checked the flight control indicators. “Retract your speedbrakes! Spoilers are still up.” The pilot thumbed the switch to retract them, but there was no change. “Check my OVERRIDE switches!” he yelled.
The copilot reached over to the center console and checked the switches. “Spoiler OVERRIDE switches are normal,” he said. “What’s going on?”
The OSO could feel a definite sink building — it felt like the bomber was mushing, on the verge of a stall. It was yawing to the left as well, as if the pilot had pulled back power on the left engines. “Roll out! Roll out!” he shouted on interphone. “TF fail! You got it, pilot? Altitude!” But he didn’t have it.
