make it."
"Well, we made it, and I'm ready to do some flying and
serve up a heapin' helpin' of whup-ass," Luger said excitedly.
"And I've been studying, too."
:'Studying? The Megafortress?"
'Damn right, bro," Luger said. "Ever since the Redtail
Hawk rescue, and after finding out you guys were still together
and still flying Megafortresses, I've been studying up on
everything you've been doing. Hal and Paul and John Ormack
and Angelina Pereira, before they died, were secretly giving
me EB-52 tech orders for months, the latest stuff. I haven't
seen a Screamer or a JSOW or a Wolverine, but I know how
to load, program, and launch them and all the weapons we can
carry on a Megafortress. I can sit in any seat and run the
systems, and I could even fly the beast with a little help. So
just tell me where in the hell we're going and I'll help you
get us there!"
Patrick McLanahan looked at his assembled circle of friends
and comrades-in-arms, and felt the pride and happiness well
up in his heart. They were all together once again: the crew
of the original EB-52 Megafortress, the "Old Dog," minus its
copilot John Ormack and its- gunner Angelina Pereira; Hal
Briggs, his friend and fellow warrior; Paul White, his former
instructor turned high-tech rescue expert; Jon Masters, the boy
FATAL T ER RAI N 361
genius whom Patrick had dragged out of the laboratories and
corporate boardrooms to show him what defending your coun-
try and risking your life in combat was really about; Nancy
Cheshire, the smart-mouth hard-as-nails test pilot who had
been in combat in the Megafortress even more times than Pat-
rick McLanahan himself; and newcomer Chris Wohl, the
brooding, powerful Marine who suffered himself to be around
all these Air Force techno-soldiers and who had shown them
all what it was like to kill while looking directly into the eyes
of the enemy instead of from the sky.
And, last but not least, they were all together with the beast
that had started the whole thing ten years earlier-the modified
B-52 strategic escort "battleship" they called the Old Dog.
Over the past ten-plus years, they had done some incredible,
Mystifying, unheard-of things in the strange pointed-nose, V-
tailed, fibersteel-skinned demon.
Now they were faced with their greatest challenge-to leave
the protection and support of the United States military, fly to
a strange new land, and attempt to turn the tables on a giant
military superpower that was willing to risk a global thermo-
nuclear holocaust to assert its domination. The odds seemed
enormous.
"Guys, listen up for a minute, all of you," Patrick Mc-
Lanahan said. "I don't mean to insult any of you, but I'm
going to remind you that what we have done and what we are
about to do are probably among the most dangerous things
you will ever do or ever contemplate doing. If we succeed,
you will not be rewarded for a job well done-in fact, you
might find yourself in federal prison for a long, long time. My
child. .."
"Your ... what, Muck?" David Luger asked incredulously.
"Your child?"
"Yes, my child-our child," Patrick said, reaching over to
take Wendy's hand. "My child could grow up fatherless, or
he could be born with his father in prison-in fact, he or she
could be born in prison. And of course, we could all die suc-
cessfully defending our country, and no one will thank us, or
we could die in total obscurity, and it will be as if we never
existed at all. I know we're not in this business to get thanks
from anyone, but I do know that we fly for our country and
to preserve our freedom. Well, our country's leaders don't
want us to do what we're about to do.
362 DALE BROWN
"On the other hand, if we don't do this mission and if we
turn ourselves in to Sky Masters, Inc.'s, lawyers in Washing-
ton, we could have a pretty good chance of surviving lawsuits
and court-martials and returning to our former lives with our
fortunes and careers intact," Patrick went on. "I think Jon
Masters and I have enough friends in high places, including
the White House, to go to bat for us. Between our political
pals and our lawyers, I feel pretty confident that if we stop
now, our careers and our company can survive all that we've
done up until now, even including taking this airfield. So you
see, you've got nothing to gain and everything to lose if we
go on."
"So what else is new, Patrick?" Hal Briggs deadpanned.
"If you're done talking, Colonel," Nancy Cheshire said, "I
think we better get off this airpatch before someone happens
by. Let's go."
Patrick McLanahan searched the faces of all those surround-
ing him-there was not one downturned eye, not one uncertain
fidget, not one shred of doubt evident in any nuance or ex-
pression. They were all ready to fight. "Very well, folks,"
Patrick said. He turned to Brad Elliott and asked, "You feel
up to doing some flying again, sir?"
"You try to stop me, Muck," Elliott responded. The retired
three-star looked at his young colleague and prot6g6 with great
admiration, but said nothing else as he headed back to the
hangar to get ready to load and launch his bomber.
"Good speech, boss," Nancy Cheshire said as she followed.
"Comy as hell, but very inspirational. Made me weepy all
over the damn place."
"Thanks, Nancy. High praise coming from you," he dead-
panned. "And I'm not your boss."
"Maybe you will be," Cheshire said. "You sure sound like
a commander giving a pep talk to the troops before stepping."
"It'll be all I can do to keep us out of prison, Nance,"
Patrick said. "Try to keep the general straight."
"No problem, Colonel," Nancy Cheshire said eagerly.
"See you on the other side." She trotted off after Elliott.
I "Dave, it's you and me in the back," Patrick said. "We'll
do a little on-the-job training on the equipment." The eager-
ness and excitement in Luger's eyes immediately took Patrick
back to their heyday, winning trophies and building an un-
matched reputation for themselves. Plus, they had a lot of
FATAL TERRAI N 363
damn fun-and, despite the danger they faced, it felt like it
was going to be fun again. "Everyone else evacuates with
Jon's DC-IO."
"You still haven't told us where we're evacuating to, Pat-
rick," Jon Masters pointed out.
Patrick McLanahan smiled a mischievous grin that could
have been directly cloned from Brad Elliott himself "I'll brief
you just before we shoot the approach, Jon," he said. "You'd
probably want to stay right here and take your chances with
Commander Willis and the federal marshals if you knew where
we were going or how we were going to get there."
OVER THE PACIFIC OCEAN, TWENTY MILES
SOUTHWEST OF HUALIEN,
REPUBLIC OF CHINA (TAIWAN)
JUST
8 EFORE DAYBREAK
"Hualien approach, Military Flight One-One," Nancy Chesh-
ire radioed. "Requesting GPS approach runway zero-three
right."
"Military One-One, Hualien approach, do not fly in the vi-
cinity of the Republic of Taiwan or you may be fired on with-
out further warning," the precise but heavily Chinese-accented
English-speaking voice responded. "All airspace in and
around the Republic of China is restricted due to the air de-
fense emergency. Say your PPR number."
Stand by." Cheshire referred to a Post-it note stuck on the
center multifunction display on the forward instrument con-
sole. "One-One has victor-alpha-one-seven-alpha-two-lima."
A PPR, or Prior Permission Required, number was standard
operating procedure for most military installations, even half-
way around the world on the island of Formosa, just ninety
miles east of the Asian mainland. Any aircraft attempting to
land at a base without a PPR would certainly be detained and
its crew arrested-or worse.
"Hualien Approach understands," the Taiwanese approach
controller replied after a long pause, repeating the code warily,
east-central Taiwan was the largest Taiwanese military base
364 DALE BROWN
on the east side of the island, the home of several Taiwanese
Navy air and surface units as well as two Taiwan Air Force
fighter-interceptor and fighter-bomber squadrons-at least it
had been, until a nuclear-tipped Communist Chinese M-9 bal-
listic missile destroyed most of the base. Now it was a flattened
collection of burned-out foundations and scorched aircraft re-
vetments, with large blackened piles of metal here and there
the only evidence that several dozen aircraft once were based
there. Just three miles to the west, the Chung Yang Shang
mountain range rose precipitously right up to 10,000 feet
above sea level in just a few miles.
"Military Flight One-One, cancel GPS approach clear-
ance," the approach controller said.
Nancy Cheshire and Brad Elliott looked at one another in
astonishment. "Say again, control?" Cheshire radioed. "Have
we been cleared to land? Is there a problem?"
"Cancel approach clearance," the controller repeated an-
grily. "Contact the controller on security frequency channel
one-one immediately or you will be considered a hostile
intruder. Comply immediately!"
Cheshire acknowledged the transmission and switched chan-
nels, but she was totally confused. The weather was pretty
good right now-scattered clouds, good visibility, some swirl-
ing winds because of the mountains but not too bad. The run-
way was in sight in the growing dawn. In the military world,
the GPS, or Global Positioning System satellite navigation sys-
tem, was far more accurate than any other kind of instrument
approach. GPS signals in the civilian world were downgraded
by the U. Department of Defense to prevent America's en-
emies from using the system against America-not so on the
EB-52 Megafortress. The EB-52's Global Positioning System
was accurate to within six inches in both position and altitude,
which made it hundreds of times more accurate than any other
navigation instrument in existence.
Cheshire quickly set up the primary radio for the next con-
troller, who was on a special military frequency accessible
only by planes using the HAVE QUICK secure radio system,
which shifted frequencies for both air and ground units si-
multaneously based on a computerized timing sequence. "But-
ton one-one on radio one," the copilot announced. "Hualien
approach on backup, Hualien ground on radio two with their
FATAL TERRAIN 365
command post on backup. I've got the GPS approach dialed
in as a backup."
Thanks," Brad Elliott responded. "I got the radios." He
keyed the mike: "Hualien radar, Military Flight One-One with
you, level five thousand, thirteen out for runway zero-three
right."
"Military Flight One-One, this is Hualien final controller,"
a voice responded sternly, "execute all of my instructions im-
mediately." The Megafortress pilots noted the extreme em-
phasis on the words "all" and "immediately." "In case of
loss of communications, immediately execute missed approach
procedures. You must not delay any missed approach proce-
dures. Do you copy?"
"One-One copies."
"Roger. Do not acknowledge further transmissions. De-
scend to two thousand, turn left heading zero-eight-one. This
will be a PAR approach to runway zero three right." Elliott
and Cheshire dialed in the new heading and altitude, and the
autopilot complied. "Five miles to final approach fix." The
controller made the same reports-altitude, heading, and po-
sition-every five seconds. For the EB-52's pilots, it was a
complete no-brainer-simply dial in the numbers in the au-
topilot and watch as they got closer to the runway. The ap-
proach looked like a iniffor image approach to what the GPS
was showing them, so the backup was working, too.
"Maybe it's a local procedure-PAR approaches only, as a
security measure," Cheshire offered. The PAR, or Precision
Approach Radar, was a controller-operated instrument landing
the runway by the use of two high-speed, high-resolution ra-
dars-very accurate, but not as accurate as GPS and not nec-
essary because they could see the runway. Elliott shrugged-
it didn't matter now, because they were lined up for landing
and they hadn't been shot down yet. They could see the run-
way, the GPS was giving them good info along with the PAR
controller-evetything was humming along OK.
At the final approach fix, the beginning of the final segment
to landing, Elliott called for the "Before Landing" checklist
and lowered the landing gear. "Three green, no red," Cheshire
announced, checking the gear-down lights. Elliott checked
them as well. Everything going smoothly-PARs were so sim-
ple, a monkey could do it, given enough bananas.
366 DALE BROWN
"Passing final approach fix," the controller reported.
"Check gear down, heading zero-four-two, altitude one thou-
sand two hundred, slow to final approach speed."
"Military Flight One-One gear down," Elliott radioed-
that was the only allowable radio call, done as a safety mea-
sure. Cheshire began reading the portions of the "Before
Landing" checklist not already accomplished-flaps, lights,
starters, weapons stowed, radar standby, seat belts, shoulder
harnesses, crew notified ...
"Heading zero-three-one, five-hundred-feet-per-minute rate
of descent, altitude seven hundred feet, three miles from touch-
down," the controller intoned. "Heading zero-three-one, six
hundred feet altitude, two miles from touchdown. Report run-
way in sight."
"Runway
in sight," the pilot responded-he had had it in
sight for the past five minutes. He expected instructions to take
over visually about half a mile from touchdown, when the
PAR radar could not update fast enough to provide accurate
course and glideslope data. One last check around the cockpit,
check the gear, check ...
"One-One, lights off," they heard the controller say. "Two
miles to touchdown, heading zero-three-zero, altitude four
hundred."
"What did he say?" Elliott asked aloud.
"He said turn the lights off," Cheshire replied. She reached
up to the overhead switch panel. "Want 'em off?.
Well, this was stupid, Elliott thought. But he had the runway
made and most of the rest of the airfield in sight. -Okay@, lights
off, but I don't know why the hell-"
Just as Cheshire flicked the breaker switches, they heard,
"Military One-One, turn left immediately, heading diree-zero-
zero, descend to three hundred feet, maintain final approach
speed! "
I IWhat!" Elliott exclaimed. That was a ninety-degree turn
to the west-directly toward the mountains! He crushed the
mike switch: "Hualien, repeat that last!"
"Military One-One, turn immediately!" the controller
shouted. "Turn now or execute missed approach instruc-
tions! "
Elliott grabbed the control stick and power controller, pad-
dled off die autopilot, and swung the EB-52 Megafortress hard
onto the new heading. "Where the hell is the terrain? Lower
T
FATAL TERRAIN 367
the radome." Cheshire hit a switch on the overhead panel, and
the long, pointed SST-style nose of the Megafortress lowered
several degrees to improve forward visibility.
"Heading two-niner-eight, altitude two hundred feet, three
miles to touchdown," the controller intoned. The vectors were
coming in faster: "Heading three-zero-niner, altitude one-fifty,
two point five miles to touchdown ... now heading three-four-
nine, altitude two-twenty, two point two miles to
touchdown . . . "
"The son of a bitch! " Elliott shouted, making the sudden
right turn with fifty degrees of bank, "He's vectored us right
into the side of a mountain! What in hell is going on?"