these powered descents.”
Boomer fought off the G-forces, reached out, and patted the top of the instrument panel. “Good spaceship, nice spaceship,” he cooed lovingly. “She likes these powered descents too — all that heat on the belly is not nice, is it, sweetie? Did I tell you, Frenchy, that those ‘leopards’ engines were
“Only about a million times, Captain.”
“Oh yeah.”
“Air pressure on the surface is up to green…computers are securing the reaction control system,” Moulain reported. “Mission-adaptive control surfaces are in test mode…tests complete, MAW system responding to computer commands.” The MAW, or Mission Adaptive Wing, system was a series of tiny actuators on the fuselage that in essence turned the entire body of the spaceplane into a lift or drag device — computers shaped the skin as needed to maneuver, climb or descend, make the craft slipperier, or slow down quickly. Even flying backward, the MAW system allowed complete control over the spaceplane. With the atmospheric controls active, Boomer took control of the Black Stallion himself, turned so they were flying forward like a normal aircraft, then hand-flew the ship through a series of steep, high angle-of-attack turns to help bleed off more speed while keeping the descent rate and hull temperatures under control.
At the same time, he was maneuvering to get into position for landing. This landing was going to be a bit trickier than most, because their landing spot was in southeast Turkey at a joint Turkey-NATO military base at a city named Batman. Batman Air Base was a Special Operations Joint Task Force base during the 1991 Gulf War, with American Army Special Forces and Air Force pararescue troops running clandestine missions throughout Iraq. It was returned to Turkish civil control after the war. In a bid for greater cooperation and better relations with its fellow Muslim nations in the Middle East, Turkey forbade NATO offensive military operations to be staged from Batman, but America had convinced the Turks to allow reconnaissance and some strike aircraft to fly from Batman to hunt down and destroy insurgents in Iran. It was now one of the most vital forward air bases for American and NATO forces in the Middle East, eastern Europe, and central Asia.
“Passing sixty thousand feet, atmospheric pressure in the green, ready to secure the ‘leopards,’” Moulain said. Boomer chuckled — securing the “leopards” and transitioning to air-breathing turbojet mode was done automatically, as were most operations on the spaceplane, but Moulain always tried to pre-guess when the computer would initiate the procedure. Cute, yes — but she was generally correct, too. Sure enough, the computer notified him that the LPDRS engines were secure. “We’re still in ‘manual’ mode, Captain,” Moulain reminded him. “The system won’t restart the engines automatically.”
“You’re really on top of this stuff, aren’t you, Frenchy?” Boomer quipped.
“That’s my job, Captain.”
“You’re never going to call me ‘Boomer,’ are you?”
“Unlikely, Captain.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing, Frenchy.”
“I’ll survive. Ready for restart.”
Part of her allure was definitely the chase. Maybe she was all businesslike in bed too — but that was going to have to wait for a time when they weren’t seated in tandem. “Unspiking the engines, turbojets coming alive.” They had enough oxygen in the atmosphere now to stop using hydrogen peroxide to burn jet fuel, so Boomer reopened the movable spikes in the engine inlets and initiated the engine start sequence. In moments the turbojets were idling and ready to fly. Their route of flight was taking them over central Europe and Ukraine, and now they were over the Black Sea, heading southeast toward Turkey. Along with keeping hull temperatures low, the powered descent procedures allowed them to descend out of orbit much quicker — they could come down from two hundred miles’ altitude into initial approach position, called the “high gate,” in less than a thousand miles, where a normal aerobraking descent might take almost five thousand miles.
Below sixty thousand feet they were in Class A positive control airspace, so now they had to follow all normal air traffic control procedures. The computer had already entered the proper frequency in the number one UHF radio: “Ankara Center, this is Stud Seven, due regard, one hundred twenty miles northwest of Ankara, passing flight level five-four-zero, requesting activation of our flight plan. We will be MARSA with Chevron Four-One.”
“Stud Seven, Ankara Center, remain outside Turkish Air Defense Identification Zone until radar identified, squawk one-four-one-seven normal.” Boomer read back all the instructions.
At that moment, on their secondary encrypted radio, they heard: “Stud Seven, Chevron Four-One on Blue Two.”
Boomer had Frenchy monitor the air traffic control frequency, then switched to the secondary radio: “Four- One, this is Stud Seven.” They performed a challenge-and-response code exchange to verify each other’s identity, even though they were on an encrypted channel. “We launched out of Batman because we heard from Ankara ATC that they are not letting any aircraft cross their ADIZ, even ones with established flight plans. We don’t know what’s going on, but usually it’s because an unidentified aircraft or vessel drifted into their airspace or waters, or some Kurds fired some mortars across the border, and they shut everything down until they sort it out. We’re coming up on rendezvous point ‘Fishtail.’ Suggest we do a point-parallel there, then head out to MK.”
“Thank you for staying heads-up, Four-One,” Boomer said, the relief obvious in his voice. Using the powered descent profile grossly depleted their fuel reserves — they were almost bingo fuel right now, and by the time they reached the initial approach fix at Batman Air Base they’d be in an emergency fuel status, and they would have no fuel to go anywhere else. Their closest alternate landing site was Mi-hail Kogalniceanu Airport near Constanta, Romania, or simply “MK” for short, the first U.S. military base established in a former Warsaw Pact country.
With the two aircraft linked via the secure transceiver, their multi-function displays showed them each other’s position, the track they had to follow to rendezvous, and the turnpoints they’d need to get into position. The Black Stallion reached the Air Refueling Initial Point fifteen minutes early, four hundred knots too fast, and thirty thousand feet too high, so Boomer started a series of high-bank turns to bleed off the excess airspeed. “I love it — boring holes in the sky, flying around in the fastest manned aircraft on the planet.”
“Odin to Stud Seven,” Boomer heard on his encrypted satellite transceiver.
“It’s God on GUARD,” he quipped. “Go ahead, Odin.”
“You’re cleared to proceed to MK,” Patrick McLanahan said from Armstrong Space Station. He was monitoring the spaceplane’s progress from the command module. “Crews are standing by to secure the Black Stallion.”
“Do I have to have someone back home looking over my shoulder from now on?” he asked.
“That’s affirmative, Boomer,” Patrick responded. “Get used to it.”
“Roger that.”
“Any idea why Ankara wasn’t letting anyone in, sir?”
“This is Genesis. Still negative,” David Luger chimed in. “We’re still checking.”
Eventually the Black Stallion was able to slow down and descend to get into proper position, five hundred feet below and a half mile behind the tanker. “Stud Seven is established, checklist complete, got you in sight, ready,” Boomer reported.
“Roger, Seven, this is Chevron Four-One,” the boom operator in the tanker’s tail pod responded. “I read you loud and clear, how me.”
“Loud and clear.”
“Roger that. I have a visual on you too.” On intercom, he said, “Boom’s lowering to contact position, crew,” and he motored the refueling book into position, its own steerable fly-by-wire wings stabilizing it in the big tanker’s slipstream. Back on the radio: “Seven is cleared to precontact position, Four-One is ready.”
“Seven’s moving up,” Boomer said. He opened the slipway doors atop the fuselage behind the cockpit, then smoothly maneuvered the spaceplane to the precontact position: aligned with the tanker’s centerline, the top of the windscreen on the center seam of the director light panel. The immense belly of the converted Boeing 777 filled the windscreen. “Seven’s in precontact position, stabilized and ready, JP-7 only this time,” he said.
“Copy precontact and ready, JP-7 only, cleared to contact position, Four-One ready,” the boom operator said. He extended the nozzle and set the “maneuver” light blinking, the signal for the receiver to move into position. Boomer barely had to move the controls because the plane was so light — almost as if just by thought, he carefully maneuvered the Black Stallion forward and up. When the maneuver light turned steady, Boomer held his position, again as if by thought only, and the boom operator slid the nozzle into the receptacle. “Contact, Four-One.”
“Seven has contact and shows fuel flow,” Boomer acknowledged. “You’re a very welcome sight, boys.”
“We’re a Cabernet crew, sir,” the tanker pilot said.
