to believe the secluded area was harboring aliens from outer space and their spacecraft.
In reality, HAWC was simply a site for innovative, creative aerospace engineers. Although the days of unlimited “black” budgets were gone, free thinking—by engineers, pilots, scientists, and even the commanders—was encouraged and rewarded here.
Terrill Samson taxied the F-111 toward a row of twelve low hangars, all painted to blend in with the sand-colored desert landscape around them. As the plane approached, a hangar door slid open, and it taxied directly inside without stopping or even slowing down much. The hangar doors started to close longbefore the plane was fully inside—the less time the doors were open, the less chance that snooping eyes could catch a glimpse of whatever was inside. It had been preceded minutes before by the bomber that it had stayed with over the Pacific Ocean just a short while earlier, and parked next to it.
As soon as the F-111’s engines were shut down, the crew chief and his assistant brought boarding ladders over to its side. But General Victor Hayes was still too stunned to remove his helmet and unstrap himself, let alone climb out of the cockpit. Samson took off his own helmet and released his straps, then sat in the cockpit, amused, quietly watching the Air Force chief of staff. A dozen heavily armed security policemen, maintenance crews, and engineers had descended on both aircraft on arrival, prepared to swarm over them and to gather electronically recorded information about the test launches. Now they all waited for Hayes and Samson to step out, perplexed but wisely keeping out of earshot.
“Well, sir?” Samson asked. “What do you think?”
The hangar was air-conditioned, but long before entering it Hayes felt a chill—especially when he thought about what he had witnessed that morning. “What do I think?” he echoed. “I can’t believe it. That warhead is incredible. Talk to me, Earthmover. What the hell else have you got here? Whatever you’re selling, I’m buying. I don’t know how we’re going to pay for it, but I’m for damned sure in the market.”
“What I’ve got, sir, is a bunch of concepts and demo models,” Samson said. “All a leftover of Brad Elliott’s vision and leadership. He’s got stuff here that would make James Bond shit his pants. I’m sorry I blew the poor son of a bitch off for so many years. We all thought he was just certifiable. It turns out he was a certifiable genius.”
“The antiballistic missile stuff, Earthmover. Lancelot,” Hayes said. “That’s what Congress wants to field right now. What is it, how much, how fast can we get it in the field?”
“Let me show you what we’ve got, sir,” Samson said. Hayes removed his straps at last and followed Samson out of the chase plane and over to the B-1 beside it. After their IDs were checked and verified by thumb and retina prints, they began a walkaround of the big, sleek bomber. “We call it the EB-1C Megafortress-2, sir,” said Samson. “Prime-time example of taking a good strike aircraft and making it better. You won’t notice too many changes outside, but Brad transformed this thing into a real tactical strike machine.”
Hayes touched the big bomber, and his eyes narrowed in surprise. He was trying to identify what he felt. “That’s not steel,” he said.
“Fibersteel,” Samson explained. “Same stuff as RAM—radar-absorbent material—but fibersteel is structural-strength. We’ve reduced the weight and the radar cross section and increased the durability by at least fifteen percent just by reskinning with fibersteel. A stock B-1 has ten times the radar cross section of a B-2 stealth bomber. This one has only three times the RCS.”
He pointed to the bomber’s broad, flat underside, between the nosewheel well and forward bomb bay. “There are the external weapons and fuel hardpoints. Best move we made was to bring those back. We can launch any weapon in the
In reality, HAWC was simply a site for innovative, creative aerospace engineers. Although the days of unlimited “black” budgets were gone, free thinking—by engineers, pilots, scientists, and even the commanders—was encouraged and rewarded here.
Terrill Samson taxied the F-111 toward a row of twelve low hangars, all painted to blend in with the sand-colored desert landscape around them. As the plane approached, a hangar door slid open, and it taxied directly inside without stopping or even slowing down much. The hangar doors started to close longbefore the plane was fully inside—the less time the doors were open, the less chance that snooping eyes could catch a glimpse of whatever was inside. It had been preceded minutes before by the bomber that it had stayed with over the Pacific Ocean just a short while earlier, and parked next to it.
As soon as the F-111’s engines were shut down, the crew chief and his assistant brought boarding ladders over to its side. But General Victor Hayes was still too stunned to remove his helmet and unstrap himself, let alone climb out of the cockpit. Samson took off his own helmet and released his straps, then sat in the cockpit, amused, quietly watching the Air Force chief of staff. A dozen heavily armed security policemen, maintenance crews, and engineers had descended on both aircraft on arrival, prepared to swarm over them and to gather electronically recorded information about the test launches. Now they all waited for Hayes and Samson to step out, perplexed but wisely keeping out of earshot.
“Well, sir?” Samson asked. “What do you think?”
The hangar was air-conditioned, but long before entering it Hayes felt a chill—especially when he thought about what he had witnessed that morning. “What do I think?” he echoed. “I can’t believe it. That warhead is incredible. Talk to me, Earthmover. What the hell else have you got here? Whatever you’re selling, I’m buying. I don’t know how we’re going to pay for it, but I’m for damned sure in the market.”
“What I’ve got, sir, is a bunch of concepts and demo models,” Samson said. “All a leftover of Brad Elliott’s vision and leadership. He’s got stuff here that would make James Bond shit his pants. I’m sorry I blew the poor son of a bitch off for so many years. We all thought he was just certifiable. It turns out he was a certifiable genius.”
“The antiballistic missile stuff, Earthmover. Lancelot,” Hayes said. “That’s what Congress wants to field right now. What is it, how much, how fast can we get it in the field?”
“Let me show you what we’ve got, sir,” Samson said. Hayes removed his straps at last and followed Samson out of the chase plane and over to the B-1 beside it. After their IDs were checked and verified by thumb and retina prints, they began a walkaround of the big, sleek bomber. “We call it the EB-1C Megafortress-2, sir,” said Samson. “Prime-time example of taking a good strike aircraft and making it better. You won’t notice too many changes outside, but Brad transformed this thing into a real tactical strike machine.”
Hayes touched the big bomber, and his eyes narrowed in surprise. He was trying to identify what he felt. “That’s not steel,” he said.
“Fibersteel,” Samson explained. “Same stuff as RAM—radar-absorbent material—but fibersteel is structural-strength. We’ve reduced the weight and the radar cross section and increased the durability by at least fifteen percent just by reskinning with fibersteel. A stock B-1 has ten times the radar cross section of a B-2 stealth bomber. This one has only three times the RCS.”
He pointed to the bomber’s broad, flat underside, between the nosewheel well and forward bomb bay. “There are the external weapons and fuel hardpoints. Best move we made was to bring those back. We can launch any weapon in the
Similar Books
