Red Hammer 1994

“I’ll let you know in a minute. Where’s Ledermeyer?”

“Went to take a leak. He’ll be right back.”

“I hope so; we’ve got to get moving.”

The B-1B carried a crew of four. The fourth was Captain Russel Ledermeyer, the offensive weapons officer. He sat next to Lieutenant Jefferson, directly behind the pilot and copilot. It was a cozy arrangement, but functional.

Buck settled into his ejection seat, setting the plastic case next to him. The cockpit area was Spartan, but well designed. Exotic gear such as a heads-up display in the original Jimmy Carter-cancelled B-1A had been dispensed with to save money in the B model.

“How about the emergency gear?”

“It’s all here,” commented Joe, squeezing by and sitting down. “I did an inventory. This must be serious; what do you think?”

“Let’s find out.”

Grant lifted the plastic case and set it in his lap. Despite his distaste for regulations, he knew when to cut the bullshit. With Joe’s eyes glued on the case, he carefully broke the seal. The next step was the lock. Each of them would enter two numbers, Joe first, neither seeing the other’s.

“All set,” Joe said, on edge.

Grant quickly positioned the remaining two numbers to release the lock, then flipped the two metal latches and opened the case. Inside, in separately sealed envelopes, were a tasking summary, the EWO mission folder, and the authenticators—the critical item necessary to determine if a properly authenticated release order was received aboard the aircraft. Only then could Permissive Action Link codes be entered to arm the nuclear weapons carried on board. Other pages included up-to-date weather information over target locations and the latest intelligence on the Russian threat.

“Ledermeyer’s here,” called Jefferson.

“Listen up,” ordered Grant. He broke the seal on the larger envelope and opened it. He folded the message back and read the mission tasking, a computer printout summary including a color relief map and a small aeronautical chart of their ordered flight path. All STRATCOM’s mission and logistics planning were now accomplished with centralized computer databases located at STRATCOM headquarters in Omaha. Grant concentrated on the summary, frowning. He picked out the highlights for the crew, running his finger down the page.

“Fly to McChord Air Force Base. Remain on strip alert until further assignment. Possible relocation to a secondary site.”

He looked up at Joe. “How far, and when do we get there?”

Grabowski punched the coordinates into the flight computer, and within seconds, the answer was displayed on the small, backlit screen in front of him. “It’s one thousand six hundred and eight miles. Assuming an average speed of six hundred and forty miles per hour, it will take a little over two and one-half hours, given normal winds. If we get off the ground by 1525 we’ll get there approximately 1555 their time.”

“Good,” said Grant. “Let’s get moving. Maybe we can get some sleep once we’re on the ground in Washington.”

Buck carefully replaced the folder, latched the case, and stowed it snugly behind his seat. He donned his helmet, the oxygen mask dangling to the side, then buckled himself securely into the ejection seat. He peered out the side cockpit window and signaled to the crew chief who flashed a thumbs-up. The security guards rolled back the perimeter rope while Joe methodically worked down the preflight checklist. Grant fired off equipment status, flicking switches and scanning gauges.

“That’s it,” Grabowski said, mostly to himself. He forced his helmet onto his head, tightening the strap. “Let’s go,” he said confidently.

One by one, the huge bomber’s turbofan engines sprang to life, the high-pitch whine building to an ear-splitting racket. With all propulsion systems checked, Buck throttled back, gently releasing the brakes to slowly taxi to the edge of the runway. The entire ground crew saluted in unison in an emotionally charged send-off.

The graceful bomber rolled to a stop twenty yards short of the final starboard turn before the runway. “This is X-ray Yankee One, request clearance for takeoff,” Grant said into the small microphone, which was an integral part of his mask.

A crackle over the radio brought the reply. “Cleared, Yankee One, runway one-three-fiver.”

Kicking in the engines, Buck maneuvered the plane to starboard, pausing momentarily to glance at Grabowski. “All set,” he said, a slight smile on his face.

“You bet, bud.”

“How about you two back there?”

“All set, Buck”