Sky Masters

“T minus thirty seconds, final release configuration check,” McLanahan announced. He quickly ran through the final seven steps of the “Weapon Release — Conventional” checklist, then had Cobb read aloud his heads-up display’s configuration readouts. Everything was normal. McLanahan checked the crosshair placement on target, made a slight adjustment, then told Cobb, “Final aiming… ready. My dark visor’s down.” McLanahan told Cobb his dark visor was down because Cobb seemed never to check around the cockpit, although McLanahan knew he did. “Tone on.” McLanahan activated the bomb scoring tone so the ground trackers would know exactly when the release pulse from the bombing computers was generated.

“Copy,” Cobb said. “Mine too. Autopilot off, TF’s off. Coming up on break… ready… ready… now.” He said it as calmly, as serenely as if he were describing a china teacup being filled with afternoon tea — but his actions were certainly not dainty. Cobb slammed the FB-111 in a tight 60-degree bank turn to the left and hauled back on the control stick. McLanahan felt a few roll flutters as Cobb made minute corrections to the break, but otherwise the break was clean and straight — the more constant the G-forces Cobb could keep on the BLU-96, the more accurate the toss delivery would be. Through the steady four Gs straining on every square inch of their bodies, Cobb grunted, “Coming up on release… ready… ready… now. Release button… ready… now.” McLanahan saw the flash of the release pulse on his weapon control panel, but he jabbed the manual release “pickle” button just in case the bomb did not separate cleanly.

“This is CROWBAR, good toss, good toss,” McLanahan heard on the command channel. “All stations, stand by…”

Cobb had just completed a 180-degree turn and had managed to click on the autopilot again when both crew members could see an impossibly bright flash of light illuminate the cockpit, drowning out every shadow before them. Both men instinctively tightened their grips on handholds or flight controls just as a tremendous smack thundered against the FB-lllB’s canopy. The bomber’s tail was thrust violently to the left in a wide-sweeping skid, but Cobb was waiting for it and carefully brought the tail back in line without causing a roll couple.

“Henry — you okay?” McLanahan shouted. He could see a few stars in his eyes from the flash, but he felt no pain. He had to raise his dark visor to be able to see the instrument panels.

Cobb raised his own visor as well. “Yeah, Patrick, I’m fine.” After returning his left hand to his throttle quadrant, he made one quick scan of his controls and instruments, then resumed his usual position — eyes continually scanning, head. caged straight ahead, hands on stick and throttles.

“CROWBAR, this is Vapor Two-One, condition green,” McLanahan reported to the ground controllers. “Request clearance for a flyby of ground zero.”

“Stand by, Vapor.” The wait was not as long this time. “Vapor Two-One, request approved, remain at six thousand MSL over the target.”

Cobb executed another hard 90-degree left bank-turn and moved the FB-11 IB’s wings forward to the 54-degree setting to help slow the bomber down from supersonic speed. They could see the results as soon as they completed their turn back to the target. There was a ragged splotch of black around what was left of the concrete target tower, resembling a smoldering campfire thousands of feet in diameter. The tanks and armored personnel carriers had been blackened and tossed several hundred feet away from ground zero, and the regular trucks were burned and melted down to unrecognizable hunks. Wooden blast targets up to two miles away had been singed or knocked down, and of course all the mannequins, regardless of what they had been outfitted with, were gone.

“My God…” McLanahan muttered. He had never seen an atomic ground zero before except in old photos of Hiroshima or Nagasaki, but guessed he was looking at a tiny bit of what such devastation would be like.

“Cool,” was all Cobb said — and for him, that was akin to a long string of epithets and exclamations.

McLanahan turned his attention away from the ugly bum mark and the holocaust below: “CROWBAR, this is Two- One, flyover complete, request approach clearance.”

“Vapor, this is CROWBAR, climb and maintain eight thousand, turn left heading three-zero-zero, clear to exit R-4806W and re-enter R-4808N to PALACE intersection for approach and landing. Thanks for your help.”

“Eight thousand, three-zero-zero, PALACE intersection, Vapor copies all. Good day. Out.”