Evans said, darting a look at Simmons. "Would have made it a lot easier."
Simmons did not respond. He was nervously watching Matthews struggle to keep behind the MiG-25's wing.
"Thousand pounds," Evans reported, locking his shoulder harness restraints. "We're making a left-hand approach, according to the mileage and heading."
"I know," Matthews replied without turning his head. "Let's pray he makes a tight approach."
Paul Evans did not answer, waiting for the commands to lower the flaps and landing gear. Ten seconds passed as Evans monitored the aircraft commander. "We're outta three thousand."
"Okay," Matthews responded. "We've got terrain up to around two thousand feet northeast of the field. These bozos better have it together."
"This is like flying through Niagara Falls," Evans said, concern edging into his voice. "Nine hundred pounds."
"He's slowing!" Matthews said, caught off guard. "Give me flaps--we'll hold the gear."
"Flaps on the way," Evans responded, straining to see through the rain-splattered windshield. "Out of fifteen hundred, showing eight hundred pounds. Airspeed one-seventy-five."
"Okay," Matthews replied, tight-lipped. "Stand by for the gear and call out my altitu--"
"Shit!" Evans interrupted. "We've lost fuel pressure on number three . . . we're losing three!"
"Give me cross-feed!" Matthews ordered, advancing the throttle on the number two engine. "Boost on!"
The EICAS screen lighted, displaying the schematic diagram for the complex fuel system. The cross-feed valves and jet pumps had been energized.
"You got it," Evans shouted, monitoring the radio altimeter. "Eight hundred feet--we're bleeding off! Power--power!"
Matthews did not reply as he advanced the number two throttle to the limit. The B-2 surged forward, yawing slightly to the right, as the single 19,000-pound-thrust engine howled at full power.
"Five hundred feet, one-forty-five on the speed," Evans cautioned, squinting through the windshield. "I don't see anything--keep it coming."
Simmons placed the flare gun in the leg pocket of his flight suit , then clutched his seat and closed his eyes. He felt a wave of nausea sweep over him when the bomber yawed to the right.
"Three hundred feet," Evans reported, breathing faster. "One-forty . . . bleeding off."
"I've got it to the stops."
Both pilots flinched when the low-altitude warning alarm sounded.
"I've lost the MiG," Matthews shouted, reverting to his primary flight instruments. The radio altimeter indicated 170 feet above the ground.
"He's going around," Evans said, feeling the B-2's rate of descent increase. "Gotta hold this heading . . . we're almost there."
"God, I hope so," Matthews answered through clenched teeth. He tried to block out the flashing warning lights on the annunciator panel.
"Airspeed--airspeed!" Evans prompted. "Two's fluctuating--we're losing it! One hundred feet. Two's flamed out--raise the nose!"
"Gear down," Matthews yelled, pulling back the control stick to its limit.
Simmons gritted his teeth and squeezed the sides of his ejection seat.
"Wind shear!" Evans warned, snapping the landing gear lever down. "Get the nose up!"
"Yeah!" Matthews replied in a tight, strained voice. "Can't control it!"
Evans, wide-eyed, stared through the windshield at the black void; Matthews's gaze remained fixed on his primary flight instruments.
"I've got runway lights," the copilot shouted, bracing himself. "Gear down and locked. Ease it right--go right!"
"I'm trying . . . the wind is too strong!"
The B-2 slammed into the runway overrun, bounced back into the air, slewed to the right, then smashed violently onto the runway. "Emergency brakes!" Matthews ordered.
Evans pulled the yellow - and black-striped handle, then sat paralyzed as the bomber veered toward the left side of the runway. The left main gear dug into the soft, rain-soaked turf, dragging the aircraft farther to the left. Evans gripped the glare shield with both hands. "Here we go!"
The B-2 went off
Simmons did not respond. He was nervously watching Matthews struggle to keep behind the MiG-25's wing.
"Thousand pounds," Evans reported, locking his shoulder harness restraints. "We're making a left-hand approach, according to the mileage and heading."
"I know," Matthews replied without turning his head. "Let's pray he makes a tight approach."
Paul Evans did not answer, waiting for the commands to lower the flaps and landing gear. Ten seconds passed as Evans monitored the aircraft commander. "We're outta three thousand."
"Okay," Matthews responded. "We've got terrain up to around two thousand feet northeast of the field. These bozos better have it together."
"This is like flying through Niagara Falls," Evans said, concern edging into his voice. "Nine hundred pounds."
"He's slowing!" Matthews said, caught off guard. "Give me flaps--we'll hold the gear."
"Flaps on the way," Evans responded, straining to see through the rain-splattered windshield. "Out of fifteen hundred, showing eight hundred pounds. Airspeed one-seventy-five."
"Okay," Matthews replied, tight-lipped. "Stand by for the gear and call out my altitu--"
"Shit!" Evans interrupted. "We've lost fuel pressure on number three . . . we're losing three!"
"Give me cross-feed!" Matthews ordered, advancing the throttle on the number two engine. "Boost on!"
The EICAS screen lighted, displaying the schematic diagram for the complex fuel system. The cross-feed valves and jet pumps had been energized.
"You got it," Evans shouted, monitoring the radio altimeter. "Eight hundred feet--we're bleeding off! Power--power!"
Matthews did not reply as he advanced the number two throttle to the limit. The B-2 surged forward, yawing slightly to the right, as the single 19,000-pound-thrust engine howled at full power.
"Five hundred feet, one-forty-five on the speed," Evans cautioned, squinting through the windshield. "I don't see anything--keep it coming."
Simmons placed the flare gun in the leg pocket of his flight suit , then clutched his seat and closed his eyes. He felt a wave of nausea sweep over him when the bomber yawed to the right.
"Three hundred feet," Evans reported, breathing faster. "One-forty . . . bleeding off."
"I've got it to the stops."
Both pilots flinched when the low-altitude warning alarm sounded.
"I've lost the MiG," Matthews shouted, reverting to his primary flight instruments. The radio altimeter indicated 170 feet above the ground.
"He's going around," Evans said, feeling the B-2's rate of descent increase. "Gotta hold this heading . . . we're almost there."
"God, I hope so," Matthews answered through clenched teeth. He tried to block out the flashing warning lights on the annunciator panel.
"Airspeed--airspeed!" Evans prompted. "Two's fluctuating--we're losing it! One hundred feet. Two's flamed out--raise the nose!"
"Gear down," Matthews yelled, pulling back the control stick to its limit.
Simmons gritted his teeth and squeezed the sides of his ejection seat.
"Wind shear!" Evans warned, snapping the landing gear lever down. "Get the nose up!"
"Yeah!" Matthews replied in a tight, strained voice. "Can't control it!"
Evans, wide-eyed, stared through the windshield at the black void; Matthews's gaze remained fixed on his primary flight instruments.
"I've got runway lights," the copilot shouted, bracing himself. "Gear down and locked. Ease it right--go right!"
"I'm trying . . . the wind is too strong!"
The B-2 slammed into the runway overrun, bounced back into the air, slewed to the right, then smashed violently onto the runway. "Emergency brakes!" Matthews ordered.
Evans pulled the yellow - and black-striped handle, then sat paralyzed as the bomber veered toward the left side of the runway. The left main gear dug into the soft, rain-soaked turf, dragging the aircraft farther to the left. Evans gripped the glare shield with both hands. "Here we go!"
The B-2 went off
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