Tiger's Claw: A Novel

we deploy the aircraft based on a contract negotiated with the Pentagon. As part of the AirSea Battle strategy, our XB-1 Excalibur crews would perform long-range maritime reconnaissance, and if a strike mission is needed, the Air Force picks the targets and weapons remotely, just like a remotely piloted combat aircraft—our aircrews just drive the bus.”

“Just like your deal with reconnaissance operations in Iraq a few years ago, eh?” Cuthbert pointed out. “What was the name . . . Scion Aviation International? How did that work out for you, sir?” The skepticism was thick in his voice.

“I and the other company leaders made some unfortunate errors in judgment and planning,” Patrick admitted. “We didn’t anticipate Turkey’s aggressive military response. But the basic concept of using contractors to do interim jobs for the Pentagon is still sound, especially in this economic climate.”

“Yes, sir.” Cuthbert’s tone and expression told Patrick that he wasn’t totally convinced. “You brought in those manned robots and a couple of your rebuilt B-1s to clean that situation up,” Cuthbert observed, “except now we’re on Turkey’s shit list, along with Russia and China.”

“I’m not really interested in who has us on their hate list, Cutlass—all I care about is building a military force with some teeth without breaking the bank,” Patrick said.

“I’m with you all the way and then some, sir,” Cuthbert said. The Excalibur made another low pass, thankfully not in ear-shattering afterburner this time, then maneuvered in the runway traffic pattern to set up for landing—he couldn’t take his eyes off the sleek, menacing-looking bird. “So, how many of those things can you build?”

“There were twenty-six B-1s at AMARG in flyable storage, plus another nineteen airframes not flyable and designated for spare parts,” Patrick said. “There are just six B-1Bs in the inventory now—all the rest were lost in the American Holocaust or the counterattack. We’ve refurbished two B-1s that were in storage already, on our own dime. Out of the twenty-four flyable airframes left at AMARG, we’ve identified twenty suitable for refurbishment, for a total of twenty-two planes—two set aside for training and two squadrons of ten birds.”

“And how long did it take you to refurbish the two you’ve done?”

“About eight months.”

“Eight months? No friggin’ way, sir! One plane refurbished in just eight months?”

“We did both planes in eight months, Cutlass,” Patrick said, smiling as he saw Cuthbert’s stunned expression. “Assuming we don’t find any major problems with the airframes, it will be quicker than that for the next batch. As I said, we don’t really do that much to them—the engines, avionics, and AESA radar are practically plug-and-play, and we have a large staff of some of the best and most experienced engineers and technicians in the country. We’ve already got the engines, and the Air Force gives us equipment already in their inventory—literally off-the-shelf—so there’s no waiting for suppliers.”

The XB-1 had landed and was now taxiing toward them. While Patrick and Cuthbert donned flying helmets, a ground crewman in a light blue flight suit with an orange safety vest trotted out, wearing a headset and safety goggles and carrying bright yellow marshaling batons, and he directed the Excalibur bomber to its parking spot. Patrick plugged his helmet-mounted headset to a portable radio and keyed the mic: “How did it go, Colonel?” he asked.

“Flew like a homesick angel, General,” came the reply. “Coming aboard?”

“You bet we are,” Patrick said. “Keep ’em running. I’ll get the ladder.” Patrick motioned for Cuthbert to follow him, and together they walked up to the bomber. Patrick clasped the ground crewman’s shoulder as he stepped past him; Cuthbert shook hands with him, then looked at him quizzically as he headed to the plane. Patrick unlocked the entry ladder control lever on the nosegear door, then activated a switch that extended the boarding ladder, and he and Cuthbert climbed up. Patrick opened the hatch to the crew compartment, and they entered the aircraft.

The first area they stepped into, the systems officers’ compartment, was incredibly spacious, because the ejection seats and instruments had all been removed. “No offensive or defensive systems operators on a big-ass jet like this . . . pretty amazing,” Cuthbert shouted through the noise of the big idling engines. “Those systems are controlled from the ground now?”

“Yep,” Patrick replied, “just like the sensor operators do with Reapers, Avengers, and other remotely piloted attack aircraft. The aircraft commander can also do a lot of the en route navigation chores from the cockpit, and the mission commander can control the Sniper targeting pod if necessary. The defensive suite is pretty much automatic. So it wasn’t that great a leap—the Vampires switched to just two crewmembers years ago. Datalink technology is so sophisticated now that operating the offensive and defensive suites from the ground are the closest to real-time we can get. In an emergency, the pilots can operate the Sniper targeting pod and locate their own targets and manually fire chaff and flares and activate the jammers. I’ll show you the electronics bays after we get back—we’ve eliminated about three-quarters of the line-replaceable units the jet originally had.”

As the two stood aside in the empty systems officers’ compartment, a woman appeared through the tunnel connecting the systems officers’ compartment and cockpit and maneuvered herself between them. “Colonel Cuthbert, I’d like to introduce you to Sondra Eddington, part of the Excalibur flight test crew,” Patrick said. Cuthbert shook her hand. Even wearing bulky flying gear, Cuthbert could see how extremely attractive Eddington was.

“Nice to meet you, Colonel,” Eddington said. “Have a nice flight.”

“You’re not coming with us, Miss Eddington?”

“I don’t want to know what General McLanahan is going to do on your hop, sir,” she said with a bright smile, “but I know he wants to water your eyes. I’ll see you when you get back.” She gave him a surprising and alluring wink, then headed through the hatch and down the ladder.

“I’ll get in first so I can hold the brakes, and then you switch with the AC,” Patrick said to Cuthbert, and he headed up to the cockpit, shook hands with the pilot, then began to strap into the copilot’s ejection seat. After he was strapped in, the pilot unstrapped and headed aft. The guy was immense and filled up the narrow corridor between the cockpit and systems officers’ compartment. He went back to Cuthbert and shook his hand. “Colonel Cuthbert, I’m . . .”

“I know who you are: Colonel Thomas Hoffman, Operation Desert Fox, the B-1’s first operational deployment,” Cuthbert said. “You were the one who came up with the idea of launching Bones into ‘kill boxes’ without preplanned targets, getting target coordinates passed from other aircraft or special-ops guys on the ground. A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“Same, Colonel,” Hoffman said in a booming voice that was easy to hear even in the loud compartment. “Have a good one.” He started to move past Cuthbert.

“You’re not going with us either, Colonel?”

“You’re in good hands with McLanahan, Colonel—except for me and Sondra, he’s got more experience in Excaliburs and Vampires than almost anyone else on the patch,” Hoffman said. “I’ll see you later, sir. Have a nice flight.” Cuthbert had to retreat into the vacant offensive systems officers’ space so Hoffman could get by, and even so Hoffman’s broad shoulders brushed Cuthbert’s chest as he lumbered past.

After checking that the aft entry hatch was secure, Cuthbert ducked under the empty systems officers’ panel, past the crew rest compartment—he was happy to see that the Excalibur still had a relief pilot’s bunk, tiny galley, and chemical commode—then went up to the cockpit and looked around a bit before hoisting himself up into the aircraft commander’s seat. Both the pilot’s and copilot’s sides of the instrument panel had two twelve-inch color multifunction displays. On the pilot’s side, the left one was displaying flight information, with an artificial horizon on the top half and a horizontal situation indicator on the bottom; the right display showed a checklist, with electronic buttons and switches beside each line on the screen. There were two more MFDs in the center of the instrument panel between the pilot’s and copilot’s pairs with engine, fuel, electrical, and other systems’ readouts. Patrick’s MFDs displayed a moving map of the airport and his own checklist page. The center console between the seats contained most of the controls and switches he was familiar with. Rows of standby flight instruments were arrayed below the crewmembers’ MFDs.

Cuthbert strapped in and plugged in his headset cords and oxygen hose. “Quite a nice job with this instrument panel—it looks like a bizjet,” he said after checking in with Patrick on the intercom.

“All off-the-shelf stuff that most bizjets and airliners have been using for years,” Patrick said. “The checklists are mostly automated: you set normal or emergency conditions and phase of flight, similar to the B-2 bomber, then initiate a checklist at the proper time and just monitor the jet.” He swapped checklists with Cuthbert. “Normal, takeoff/land, before taxi,” he read. “When each step in the checklist is accomplished, you’ll get a green indicator; yellow is caution or wait, and red is a malfunction. Instrument displays will change on the MFDs depending on the