Books & Magazine Articles

SPACE WARS: The First Six Hours of World War III

Mon, 6 Apr 2009 15:48:31 -0600

A series of terrifying events is triggered when several satellites orbiting the Earth simply die. The United States finds itself in a national security dilemma, as both commercial and military satellites mysteriously go silent.

Counterspace: The Next Hours of World War III

Sun, 5 Apr 2009 15:49:52 -0600

When North Korea detonates a nuclear weapon at the edge of space, silencing dozens of satellites, rogue nations seize a unique opportunity to strike. An avalanche of crises erupt, fueled by a dearth of space situational awareness. Overnight, national leaders robbed of spy satellite imagery are making decisions in the blind. An Iranian missile threatens to destroy Israel; a Venezuelan "research" satellite jeopardizes the lives of three astronauts, and tech-savvy terrorist cells unleash back-to-back horrors in California. The White House turns to U.S. Strategic Command and its team of Deadsat II wargamers, racing the clock to stave off international disaster. But power-hungry officials are undermining those attempts. With a B-2 bomber minutes from obliterating a Chinese laser-weapon site, and two U.S. aircraft carriers in China's missile crosshairs, two great nations stand at the brink of nuclear war.

Counterspace Excerpt: Combat in Orbit

Sat, 4 Apr 2009 11:05:43 -0600

ONBOARD 'BLACKSTAR' XOV-2/60,000 FEET OVER THE PACIFIC

Alex "Zulu" Zeller waited calmly, watching a digital countdown clock on the instrument panel. Strapped into the two-stage-to-orbit Blackstar system's XOV-2 spaceplane, his pressure suit and helmet sealed, he felt more than heard a throaty roar from the SR-3 carrier aircraft's engines. He could see very little outside his windscreen, because his XOV-2 was nestled under the "mothership's" belly, its nose covered by a smooth fairing. The huge, white-colored, XB-70-like carrier aircraft was still accelerating.

Black Aura (Writing in Progress-2010)

Mon, 1 Jan 2007 10:23:04 -0700

Excerpt from Black Aura:

.... Early on a cloudless, blue-sky desert morning, Beamer and I strapped into an aging, polished-silver Lockheed T-33 Shooting Star and taxied to Runway 22. Known affectionately as the “T-Bird,” the straight-wing T-33 had been used as a spin aircraft for years, introducing countless USAF Test Pilot School students to the twisting, violent and disorienting world of spins.

We were soon at 20,000 feet, approaching a designated spin zone north of Edwards’ main complex. “SPORT,” the base's spin-area control entity, cleared us into our assigned airspace. SPORT would keep other aircraft well away and provide ground-based, long-range cameras to tape-record each spin for postflight analysis and evaluation. From the aft T-33 cockpit, via intercom, I recapped the plan for our first maneuver, reviewing proper spin-recovery control inputs Beamer should use.

I turned the flight controls over to him, and talked the Marine into a nose-high stall, then the pro-spin stick and rudder inputs required to start the T-Bird spinning horizontally. Beamer complied, and soon the horizon was whipping by our canopy at a high rate, the T-33’s nose oscillating slightly, dipping below, then rising above the hazy line that marked the boundary of brown desert and blue sky. After a few stable orbits, I ordered the pilot to ease in counter-spin controls, cautioning him to be gentle, not overcontrolling.

Then all h--- broke loose. In a moment of spin-induced confusion, Beamer jammed the stick into the wrong corner and stomped a rudder pedal, flipping the two-seat jet onto its back. We were still spinning, but upside down. With webbed straps biting into my shoulders, I grunted directions, but the stocky Beamer replied that he could barely reach the control stick and rudders. S---! I told that jarhead to yank his straps up extra-tight! No matter. The Marine might get into a similar mess in the Hornet, and he’d have to get out of that one on his own. I decided to keep giving orders, rather than take control of the jet. It was all I could do to keep my paws off the stick and boots off the rudder pedals, but I was here to instruct, not do the flying.

Somehow, Beamer’s bassackward, poorly timed control inputs managed to start the T-33 tumbling, flipping end over end, while still also spinning. The g-forces hammering our bodies and the airplane were incredible, blasting from positive 4gs to negative 4gs — from crushing us into the ejection seats, forcing blood from our brains and threatening blackout, to throwing our helmeted craniums against the canopy. Negative g-forces are called “eyeballs out” maneuvers and are d---ed uncomfortable. A human being can tolerate nine or more positive gs, aided by the inflation of a g-suit that squeezes one’s legs and abdomen to help keep blood in the head. But a guy can only handle about two or three negative gs, before tiny blood vessels in his eyeballs start popping — and he literally sees red.

Cycling from -4 gs to +4 gs was brutally painful. We couldn’t tolerate much more of that nonsense. But before I could take control, the airplane’s innards started coming apart. The wing-to-fuselage structure strained, then failed partially, causing the wing to cock at an unusual angle. Somewhere in this air rodeo, the single, centrifugal-type jet engine tore loose from a few of its tie-down mounts, but kept running, albeit accompanied by a horrible screeching noise.

I barked at Beamer to get off the controls, that I was taking over. But the Marine had pegged his fun meter, and didn’t simply release the stick. He grabbed yellow-and-black striped handles beside each thigh, rotated them upwards, then squeezed the triggers in those handles. The fool tried to eject! As aircraft commander/instructor, I had not ordered an ejection. The bird was still flying, even though it was hurting, so I saw no reason to panic...yet. But Beamer's seat did not fire, perhaps yet another casualty of the gawdawful beating the airplane and its occupants were taking.

At the time, I didn’t know Beamer had pulled his ejection handles, because the guy didn’t bother to tell me. I had my hands full, trying to wrestle the T-Bird back to controlled flight. We tumbled and flipped through 10,000 feet, rapidly headed toward the desert sand and sagebrush. Ten-grand was the prescribed minimum altitude to eject, if you weren’t under control, but I still had a few tricks left. I yanked the canopy-release handle, which blew the long, hump-backed plexiglass beast off and exposed Beamer and me to a vicious, battering wind. Even though I had the chin strap snapped and snugged up, with the oxygen mask cinched painfully tight against my face, the powerful wind immediately ripped my helmet off. I was vaguely aware that the red-and-white brain bucket was beating on the fuselage behind me, its oxygen hose still tied to a connector mounted on my chest-harness.

Blowing the canopy accomplished exactly what I’d hoped. It altered the T-33’s aerodynamics enough to regain control of the old bird. In a few seconds, I had us wings-level, still descending. But we were still in s--- city. The wing jutted away from the fuselage at an odd angle, and our one and only engine was making unhealthy, very expensive noises. It didn’t respond well to throttle commands, either, so slowing our descent wasn’t an option. I eased the nose down to keep the airspeed up and maintain adequate flow over the control surfaces. In the front cockpit, Beamer’s head was twisting back and forth, and one hand was flapping, trying to get my attention.

Aviate, navigate, communicate. The old aviator’s ditty flashed through my mind. I had the T-Bird under control, but we wouldn’t be flying for long, given the engine’s sorry condition. Where's the d---ed runway? Gently, I banked until the trainer’s nose was aimed at the long strip of concrete, then trimmed out now-heavy stick forces. I knew our silver bird might snap in two at any second, so gentle inputs was a front-of-the-brain priority.

Better give Eddy a heads-up, I flashed. Beamer was still agitated, but I didn't have time to determine what the devil was bugging him. Clamping the stick between my knees, I used both hands to pull that flailing helmet back into the cockpit, released the chin strap and one oxygen-mask bayonet, then jammed the brain-bucket over my noggin. Hunkered down behind the instrument panel, out of the worst wind blast, I managed to get my mask reconnected. Over the intercom, I then yelled at Beamer to prepare for possible ejection.

“I tried to eject! The seat didn’t fire!” he screamed. I could barely hear him over the noise of a roughly 200-knot hurricane in our cockpits.

“You stupid....! I decide when we eject!” I yelled. Adrenaline, plus the gut-wrenching knowledge that Beamer couldn’t eject, turned me into a raging fool. Aloud, I cussed the Marine Corps, Beamer’s mother and the whole d---ed universe of flight testing, I suppose. In parallel, I was thinking hard, trying to decide what to do next. I finally called the Edwards tower, declared an emergency and informed other aircraft in the area that I would attempt to deadstick the ailing T-bird onto Runway 04. It would be close, but I had a gut feeling the wounded T-33 might make it. Frankly, I wasn’t too sure my ejection seat would function, since Beamer’s hadn’t, so I’d d--- well better milk every altitude-and-energy tidbit out of the old girl.

Between a smidgen of flying skill and a wealth of good luck, I got the landing gear down and locked, rolling wings level just as the concrete overrun swept under us. I coaxed the nose up a tad and settled softly onto the west end of Runway 04 with not a foot of altitude or knot of airspeed to spare. Cautious braking brought the T-33 to a stop smack on the centerline. The engine was screeching horribly — and its temperature was skyrocketing. The powerplant could burst into flames at any second. I wasted no time stopcocking the protesting engine, praying that a fuel line hadn’t cracked and was spewing jet fuel on red-hot metal. A fire would ruin our whole day.

I scrambled from the rear cockpit and dropped to the ground, just as the first silver-suited firefighter reached the jet. I grabbed his shoulder, pulling his helmet-covered face close. I jabbed a finger at Beamer and shouted, “He tried to eject, but the seat didn’t fire! He’s on a hot seat!” The firefighter’s eyes widened. He raised a gloved, open hand at Beamer, telling the Marine to sit tight, then took off at a run, headed for a command vehicle. What I assumed to be a fire chief leaped out, spoke quickly to the first fire-guy, then started spitting orders into a handheld radio.

I moved away from the airplane, but stayed between it and the rescue team advancing on the T-33. The bird might catch fire, but I didn't want some overzealous fireman accidently setting off Beamer's hot seat, either. Flashing red lights and bellowing motors of behemoth, lime-green fire trucks assaulted my already cranked-up senses. A dull, muffled roar in both ears made hearing difficult, thanks to the wind-beating my cranium had taken in the air. I turned to catch Captain Beamer’s wide eyes locked onto mine. I couldn’t resist. I just shrugged, turned and walked away, angling toward a blue staff car braking near the now-stationary trucks. Firefighters manned gun-like rigs atop two of the massive vehicles, ready to coat the T-Bird in white, fire-smothering foam, if they detected a lick of tiny flame.

“Captain! You alright?” a worried full colonel yelled, exiting the staff car. As the test wing commander, he “owned” all Edwards aircraft.

“Yessir. But I’m afraid your airplane’s screwed,” I said.

The colonel flicked a hand toward Beamer, still sitting in the no-canopy, T-bird convertible. “And your Marine?”

“Hell, I don’t know, sir,” I replied, turning to face my student. Beamer was frozen, his helmet still on. He’d carefully raised his sunglass-like colored visor, but hadn’t released his seat straps, afraid to move. “The dumb s--- tried to eject, but the seat didn’t fire.”

“Aw, crap!” the colonel breathed. He hesitated a long beat. “That seat could fire on its own, if he even f---s. Anything else we should know?”

“Nope. It’s his own d---ed fault, sir. He’s a smart dude. Let him figure out how to get off that hot seat,” I said. I turned my back to the T-Bird so the scared-s---less pilot couldn’t see my huge grin. The colonel shot me a dark look of disgust. He clearly didn’t share my sense of humor. ... [continued...]

Blue Angels: Contract of Trust

Mon, 13 Nov 2006 11:51:40 -0700

Blue Angels 'Diamond' Epitomizes Team's Contract of Trust
(Courtesy of Aviation Week & Space Technology/McGraw-Hill)

William B. Scott, Pensacola, Fla. — Nov 13, 2006, p. 48

The 2006 air show season marks the U.S. Navy Blue Angels flight demonstration team's 60th anniversary. Known for dynamic, precision flight maneuvers in close proximity, the team's pilots live by an almost-mystical credo that permeates the entire Blue Angels squadron. Rocky Mountain Bureau Chief William B. Scott was invited back for a second flight with the team--this time in the four-ship Diamond formation--providing a close-up look at the Blue Angels' formula for breeding perennial excellence. A special thanks goes to film producer James Cross, who made the initial introductions and suggested the theme for this report.
Headed for the Naval Air Station Pensacola main runway, six U.S. Navy F/A-18 Hornets taxi past their ramrod-straight ground crews. Two of the sleek blue-and-yellow fighters turn toward one end, while the other four break off, taxiing to the opposite end of Runway 07R.
Four Hornets that constitute the Blue Angels' Diamond formation ease into position, with aircraft No. 1 stopping just left of the runway centerline. Cdr. Stephen (Boss) Foley flies that F/A-18, leading the Navy's official aerial demonstration team. He's also the Blue Angels squadron commander.
Slightly behind and to Foley's left, No. 3, flown by Lt. Cdr. Thomas (Duck) Winkler, slips to within feet of No. 1's wing. The other wingman (No. 2), Lt. Cdr. Anthony (Opie) Walley, stops on Boss's right. The Slot pilot, Maj. Matthew (PWOC) Shortal (No. 4), positions his jet echelon-right, slightly aft and outboard of Walley's. This Aviation Week & Space Technology editor is strapped into the aft cockpit of Shortal's two-seat F/A-18B today.
Chief Warrant Officer-3 Todd (MO) Herbert, the Blue Angels' Maintenance Officer and ground-to-air communicator, clears the flight for takeoff: "Boss, MO! Updated winds are 060 at six. We own the airfield and the airspace! You're cleared for takeoff! Have a good one!"

The Blue Angels' four-aircraft basic formation flies the Diamond 360, a constant-altitude turn, maintaining 12-18-in. separation. Credit: PH2 RYAN COURTADE/BLUE ANGELS PHOTOS

Foley acknowledges and addresses his four-ship flight in a barely understandable blur of upbeat commands: "Boss! We're cleared for takeoff! Winds are 060 at six--a left headwind. Check your parking brake off! Get your trim set! Check nosewheel steering ON! Maneuver: Diamond Half-Cuban Eight! Here's to walkin' on the Moon!"

The latter is a nonstandard addition today, a quick salute to Apollo astronaut and fellow naval aviator Capt. Eugene A. Cernan, who is listening via headset. Cernan is standing next to MO Herbert at the Blues' communications cart, near the squadron's hangar, accompanied by Lt. Cdr. Tarah (Doc) Johnson. The team's flight surgeon, she doubles as the ground-based quality control officer, grading each Blue Angels maneuver for postflight review during the flight's debriefing.

The other three Diamond pilots respond in quick succession, using callsigns:

"Opie!"

"Duck!"

"PWOC!" (pronounced "pe-walk," a term Shortal rarely explains.)

Boss: "Let's run 'em up! Smoke . . . ON! Off Brakes . . . NOW! Burners Ready . . . NOW!" Shortal waits a second, then shoves our Hornet's twin throttles forward, into afterburner. All four aircraft are accelerating down the runway, still in tight formation. At a predetermined speed, noses come up and the jets break ground. Shortal radios "Gear!" and four sets of landing gear and flaps retract in unison.

Immediately, Walley (No. 2) and Winkler (No. 3) slide into position, locked on Foley's right and left wings, respectively. Shortal (No. 4) presses full left rudder, adds a bit of power and slides into the slot position, his F/A-18's nose tucked beneath Boss's tail and sandwiched between the two wingmen. Aggressive use of rudder instead of ailerons for this type of position adjustment makes sure the Diamond's four aircraft maintain the same wing angle.

Easily able to count rivets in the Hornets' aluminum skins now, I'm struck by how incredibly close to each other these pilots are flying. I'm also surprised by the degree of relative movement within the formation. From the ground, the Diamond looks rock-solid, each jet welded into position in relation to the other three. But not up here. Above my head, Walley's wingtip-mounted missile-launcher rail constantly wags up and down several inches--but never remotely threatening an unintentional tap of our canopy. Occasionally, our Slot jet inches a bit higher, and I hear Boss's engine exhaust rumble across our canopy and feel it tickle the F/A-18's twin tails, setting up a mild airframe vibration. Shortal eases downward a touch and the noise and vibration disappear.

Complex maneuvers such as the Fleur de Lis begin with all six Hornets breaking in different directions. Seconds later, they rejoin at a higher altitude, creating a flower-shaped smoke pattern. Credit: PH2 RYAN COURTADE/BLUE ANGELS PHOTOS

I'd heard the words and observed myriad outward signs during ground operations, but here, with 18-24 in. separating these four fighters as they climb vertically in tight formation, I begin to fully understand. This is the manifestation of a DNA-deep Blue Angels credo. This is Trust and Confidence. And while it may appear magical to a viewer on the ground or in the backseat of No. 4, it's the fully expected outcome of a well-defined and -structured process rooted in rigorous training.

"IT'S LESS OF A STATED CONTRACT with one another that 'I'll be here and you'll be there,'" Foley explains later. "We take time to painstakingly [train] everyone, going through a building-block approach to develop a degree of proficiency. Trust and confidence manifests through development of skill sets and proficiency."

The F/A-18s come out of afterburner, still climbing straight up, then all four pilots gently pull over the top, inverted. "Smoke . . . ON!" and four noses soon point at the ground, the formation rolling to smoothly complete the Half Cuban Eight from takeoff--a signature Blue Angels maneuver that's typical of this team's aggressiveness.

"We come out of the gate with guns a-blazing," Shortal later quips. "As soon as we take off, we're in show mode."

The Diamond levels off, then immediately explodes in four directions. "This year, for the first time, we do a breakout maneuver at the bottom of the Half Cuban Eight," Shortal explains. "Nos. 2 and 3 break right and left, Boss pulls up and I do a slight unload, so it looks like the Diamond breaking apart. We rejoin behind the crowd as the Solos come down the runway for takeoff."

Blue Angels Nos. 5 and 6 are the demo team's "Solos," which perform a series of two-aircraft maneuvers. High-speed opposing passes involve 800-1,000-kt. closure rates. Credit: PH2 RYAN COURTADE/BLUE ANGELS PHOTOS

Throughout each Blues demo, Lead Solo pilot Lt. Cdr. Ted (Bunza) Steelman and Opposing Solo Lt. Cdr. John (J.B.) Allison alternate maneuvers with the Diamond, often flying directly at each other from opposite directions and passing in front of the crowd. They, too, put their lives in each other's steady hands and good judgment, protected only by that mystical Trust and Confidence element.

"When J.B. and I make opposing passes, we're looking at 800-1,000-kt. closures and [cross] 25-75 ft. apart," says Steelman, a second-year Solo pilot. "That may sound like a big separation, but it's really, really close at that kind of closure [speed]. There's no reaction time."

Allison is in his first year as Opposing Solo, but earned his Blue Angel spurs as  the 2005 airshow narrator and news-media demonstration pilot. I flew with Allison in February 2005, and can attest to his precision-piloting skills (AW&ST Mar. 21, 2005, p. 50).

The Solos build trust the same way the Diamond pilots do--via repetitive, step-by-step, progressive training, until each profile is 100% solid and predictable. During the Blues' 10-week winter training cycle at Naval Air Facility El Centro (Calif.) the Solos "do what we call 'drills down the line.' I fly [below] and behind J.B. [during] the Knife Edge maneuver. He rolls to 90-deg. [bank] and holds it. We do that hundreds of times, before we ever approach each other head-on," Steelman says. "We're doing 400 kt., but I don't want to see his altitude change by 5 ft. and his lateral displacement by 5 ft., maximum. [From behind,] I watch him do the Knife Edge roll-in, the inverted roll-in and the four-point roll-in over and over, and give him real-time feedback: 'A little too much g. Little too much cancel.'

"It's just mechanics, but when it comes time to do a [head-on] pass with me, I don't even think about whether he'll pull just a hair too much positive-g that might create closure [of the distance] between us. So, that trust and confidence is hammered out early in the season, through very mechanical, repetitious drills. And J.B. trusts me to always be predictable, whether it's the comm cadence, a clearing maneuver--whatever." ....[continued on Page 2]