Shadow Flight

Matthews, who had been a major five days before, was still uncomfortable with his new rank. He had not had an opportunity, being on deployment, to change the gold oak leaves on his flight jacket. The new silver leaves would have to wait until he returned to Whiteman Air Force Base, Missouri, his home field.

"Okay," Matthews replied, "let's go heads up. Nav lights out." The well-built, sandy-haired pilot adjusted his helmet chin strap, then looked at Evans. "Checklist."

The copilot placed the three-position master mode switch in the go to war setting. The flight controls now operated in a "stealth" mode, the radio emitters were turned off, and the weapons systems were readied.

Larry Simmons, wearing an unadorned air force issue flight suit, looked nervously around the cockpit. He felt a constriction in his chest but dismissed the pain as psychosomatic.

Simmons finally forced himself to look forward between the helmets of the two bomber pilots. They appeared to be totally relaxed, completing their descent checklist.

"Shadow Three Seven," radioed the AWACS senior control officer. "Strangle your parrot in thirty seconds — mark!"

"Wilco," Evans responded, looking at the new digital watch his wife had given him on their tenth anniversary. "Stop squawk in thirty seconds. Three Seven."

Matthews, turning his head slightly, watched the B-1B as the dark camouflaged bomber settled into a loose formation to the left of the Stealth. The sun was descending over the Canadian horizon, turning the rugged terrain below the overcast into night.

"Ghost Two Five," the AWACS controller ordered, "turn left to three-zero-five, descend to your strike profile, and stop squawk out of flight level three-one-zero. Good hunting."

"Roger, Mystic," replied the B-1B copilot. "We're outta thirty-five, comin' left to three-oh-five."

The sinister-looking strategic bomber simultaneously rolled to the left and descended toward the black, eerie overcast. Neither bomber crew would communicate with anyone until the four-hourfifteen-minute mission had been completed. Only an emergency would take precedence over the sortie. The order from the AWACS controller to "stop squawk" provided the bomber pilots with the opportunity to disappear — literally vanish — from any type of radar that might be tracking the aircraft. When the crews turned off their transponders, their radar signatures disappeared.

Transponders, used by most aircraft, both civilian and military, provided a means for air traffic controllers to keep aircraft separated in the crowded skies. Ground controllers assigned a different four-digit code to each aircraft. Transponders provided position and altitude information, making them invaluable in an organized and civilized environment. They were, however, a death knell in a combat arena.

The B-1B was not completely stealthy, but it would be almost impossible to distinguish the bomber from radar ground clutter during a low-level attack. The B-1B had been designed to penetrate deep into hostile territory, hugging the terrain at supersonic speeds, deploy nuclear cruise missiles, then egress the same way.

"Now," ordered the stocky, dark-haired copilot, glancing over his left shoulder at Simmons, who had access to a third transponder.

The normal transponder, with a primary and a secondary transmitter, was located on the console between the pilots' seats. A single-head backup transponder, with a separate, power supply, had been installed for the testing and evaluation of each B-2. The Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) had insisted on the third transponder for safety reasons. If the normal system, primary and secondary, failed during a test flight, the backup transponder would provide a means for ground controllers to follow the Stealth.

"Number three off," Simmons answered in a pensive, quiet manner.

Paul Evans sensed that something was wrong. "You okay, Larry?" Evans asked, half turning his head.

"Yeah," the diminutive technician answered, averting his eyes. Perspiration soaked his sage green flight suit. "Must've been the burritos I ate."

"Here we go," Matthews said as he lowered the Stealth's nose and reduced power on the four General Electric engines.

"We're only four seconds off," Evans reported, writing on his knee board.

"Computer tracking?" Matthews asked his right-seater.

"You bet, boss," Evans answered, smiling under his oxygen mask. "Locked on like a poor bachelor at a rich widows' convention."

Matthews chuckled softly as Shadow 37 penetrated the dense cloud cover, rocking gently in the light turbulence. The airspeed was passing 440 knots as the covert strike radar began to see "enemy" radar emissions.