I Am Spirit 544

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I never expected to step inside the cockpit of a B-2 Spirit, the Pentagon’s long-range stealth bomber. So you can imagine the shock of being at 27,000 feet and hearing an Air Force pilot tell me over the cockpit intercom, “Okay, you have the jet.”

I place one suddenly damp left hand on the throttle and the right on the stick, taking nominal control of a $2 billion aircraft. There are only 20 B-2s in the Air Force arsenal, including a second B-2 flying formation with us, slicing through clouds a scant 4 miles ahead. It occurs to me that with some exceptionally bad luck, I could endanger one-tenth of the American B-2 fleet and cause a rebalance in global military power.

But Timothy “Scar” Sullivan, of the 393rd squadron, 509th Bomb Wing, based in Missouri’s Whiteman Air Force Base, isn’t worried. The B-2 pilot has confidence in three things: His unshakeable ability to monitor every detail of the flight, his ability to recover from anything I can possibly do at this altitude, and the airplane’s ability to stop me from doing anything too dumb. He’s also rated as an instructor, so he’s qualified to operate the airplane with nothing but untrained dead weight (me) on the right side of the two-seat airplane.

We’re not carrying live bombs, of course. But even so, leaving the Spirit of Georgia to the hands of a reporter with no piloting experience—and whose familiarity with B-2 controls entails a simulator ride the previous day that ended with a crash during landing—seems unwise.

“Take her to the other side,” Scar says, wanting me to steer the Spirit of Georgia so it crosses behind the leading B-2. I push the stick left; the horizon tilts. “You can be more aggressive,” the pilot says, “you’re not gonna break her.” I can’t help but think about the simulator’s violent, hydraulically activated shudder and red screen of death.

There’s no way to back away from this opportunity, though, so this time I push the stick firmly. The airplane’s tilt becomes steeper and we casually edge left. Maneuvers in an aircraft built for endurance and range happen slowly and deliberately. Spirit of Georgia is responsive and has a top speed of 600 mph, but it’s not what you’d call peppy. We smoothly swing behind the other B-2. With the turn complete, I straighten the Spirit so it’s flying even with the horizon. I have the jet. I feel like I’ve accomplished a feat worthy of a Collier Trophy for aeronautic achievement.

That might be a dramatic overstatement, but my trip is nevertheless historic. A B-2 pilot at Whiteman told me that the number of astronauts who’ve been to space is larger than the number of people who have flown in a B-2. I look it up and find it’s true: As of that moment, 552 people had traveled into space. Only 543 people have ever flown in the cockpit of a B-2. Upon landing I’ll become number 544, with the new Air Force handle “Spirit 544.”

This isn’t some phony round-the-flagpole ride, either. The mission plan includes simulated bombing runs and an aerial rendezvous with a fuel tanker. It’s much more than I ever expected when the Air Force agreed to let me get close to the service’s prized, secretive platform.

The B-2 flies missions with a crew of two, but it takes dozens of people to keep it operational. I spent three days at Whiteman meeting the airmen who work with the B-2s and who prepared me for my flight. Senior Airman Montse Belleau, photographer, chronicled the visit and the Air Force cleared the following images for public release. No cockpit photos are allowed, some weapons cannot be discussed, and the Air Force does not permit certain angles of the bomber to be photographed.

Still, it’s hard to complain about access when you actually get to fly the plane.

High-Volume Death Dealers

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No other aircraft on the planet can do what the B-2 can do. The motto here at Whiteman is “anytime, anywhere.” That speaks to the stealth aircraft’s ability to fly anywhere in the world from the security of sleepy mid-Missouri and destroy anything it targets, no matter how well protected. And the B-2 can carry nuclear bombs, a feature alluded to by the mushroom cloud on the patch of the 393rd. Col. Paul W. Tibbets Jr., pilot of the Enola Gay, the B-29 that dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima, was part of the 393rd. This is the only unit with such imagery, and because the unit is part of the 509th, the air wing’s insignia features a mushroom cloud as well.

The B-2 can carry nuclear weapons, so everything about the bomber has a level of secrecy that permeates the base. The staff at Whiteman will never confirm or deny the presence of nuclear weapons on the base, but the high levels of security and constant on-alert status of the aircraft, weapons bunkers, and pilots would suggest there must be.

I’m reminded of this world-ending mission while in the training simulator. As a pilot walks me through some of the systems and controls, rain suddenly appears, cloud formations blink on and off, and refueling tankers appear in the sky. As a coup de grâce, a bright blast flashes and a mushroom cloud rises on the horizon. Then it hits me: These polite, courteous professionals at Whiteman have Armageddon at their fingertips.

The majority of Americans can’t find Knob Noster, Mo., on a map, but military planners in Moscow, Beijing, Islamabad, and Pyongyang definitely know.

Even without nukes, B-2s are high-volume death dealers. The payload bays can carry 80 500-pound bombs or 16 2000-pound smart munitions or cruise missiles. One pass from a B-2 carrying a full load could cripple a facility the size of Whiteman AFB; personnel here even have a creepy slide showing the bomb pattern that could destroy the base, superimposed over a satellite image.

The warplane has fought in every major campaign since Kosovo, consistently defeating air defenses and taking out hardened targets. B-2s delivered the first response to the attacks after Sept. 11, 2001, flying from Missouri to Afghanistan in October 2001 to attack Taliban targets. Most recently, B-2s erased Libya’s Air Force in an evening, taking off and landing from here in Missouri. (I discussed the raid with U.S. Air Force Lt. Gen. James Kowolski, commander of Global Strike Command, during a recent visit to PM’s offices.)

The weapons loaders assemble ordnance and load bombers as though every mission is real. To maintain operational secrecy, they are not told of impending missions. “Sometime we load them up and they take off, and a bunch of hours later they return empty,” one munitions officer tells me. “Then we have to go home and watch CNN to figure out what happened.”

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Sticking a Parachute Landing With No Feet

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It takes some training to be a passenger in a B-2. You’re not supposed to touch much of anything, but there are communications switches and settings that need to be adjusted. Other equipment, helpfully painted yellow, is for emergencies only. One of those—the handle for the ejection seat—sits by your left hand. Except for arming the seat during takeoff, landing, and refueling, I’m not supposed to mess with it.

The real training is to prepare you for what happens after an ejection. Such an ejection has happened only once in the 20-year history of the airplane, during the only loss of a B-2. (It occurred during takeoff in Guam. The crew was fine, but the plane was trashed.) But precautions must be taken, and that means donning a flight suit and harness, then being strapped into a parachute training rig.

An instructor presses a button that hoists me to the ceiling like a slab of meat, and he then walks me through emergency procedures as I hang eight feet off the ground. It’s a litany of terrifying line tangles, chute malfunctions, and deadly on-the-ground obstacles to be avoided. I do my best to pay attention, but all I can think about is the crushing pressure of the harness on my loins.

What if, he asks, if I land in a tree? My idea is to dangle for a few hours until some firefighters show up, but the airmen tell me that my parachute harness has a rappelling line sewn into it, which I need to learn to use. I disconnect from the harness and lower myself to the padded floor with a controlled series of slides.

Ironically, all this emergency training may not mean much for me in case of a real-world ejection. The base doctors who give me a preflight physical don’t clear me to fly “due to anthropometric reasons.” Basically, my six-foot-five height means I can’t safely eject. If there’s an emergency, the rocket-powered seat would blast me from the cockpit, but my legs and feet might strike the console on the way out. The wing commander graciously gives me a waiver to fly—he can overrule the doctors if he deems it appropriate. I feel safe about the entire situation, but I can’t help but wonder if there is a landing procedure for someone making a parachute landing on two recently severed stumps.

The Haunted B-2 of Whiteman AFB

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The B-2 is a maintenance-intensive airplane, and it takes an army of well-trained personnel to keep it flying. “They all have their own personalities,” says Staff Sgt. Jesse Phillips, a young airman who’s spent his whole career on B-2 maintenance.

We’re standing in a hangar where a mix of airmen and contractors are working on the Spirit of Missouri, the first B-2 in the fleet. “She’s one of our best, even though she’s the oldest,” Phillips says. Since the Spirit of Missouri has a good reputation, I ask if there are any B-2s that have a bad one. “Oh, Christine,” Phillips says immediately. “She has a mind of her own.”

Here’s the story (although personnel swear by the rumor, no one I met saw it happen). The Spirit of Kitty Hawk (93-1086) was in a maintenance hangar when, unprompted, she started her engines. The incident immediately earned the B-2 the nickname Christine, after the Steven King novel about a possessed, homicidal car.

It’s a cool story, but the real shock is the amount of work a B-2 requires. It takes an average of 55 hours of work for every hour of flight. A lot of this effort is dedicated to preserving the airplane’s stealth characteristics.

As we talk, personnel under the bomber are working on the stealth coatings that baffle enemy radar. Where I see only a flat black surface, the technicians see a complex pattern of radar-influencing material. Some materials absorb the waves while others are designed to direct the radar returns across the fuselage and toward the back of the jet so the enemy sees no signal. (Here, strategy and maintenance overlap; B-2s fly with their noses pointed at radar.) There are areas where conductive tape must be applied to bridge metal. Foams are applied to fill gaps. “There’s not a lot of sheet metal on this jet,” Phillips says.

Staffers use more than five kinds of paint and 200 kinds of chemicals. They master more than 45 separate processes. “We have the biggest tool crib in the U.S. Air Force,” Phillips says. “It’s very much of a love/hate relationship.”

The other challenge is to keep up with changing procedures—and adapt to changing threats. Stealth is a cat-and-mouse struggle between U.S. jets and defense designers in China and Russia. “We are in constant contact with engineers at Tinker Air Force Base (home of a major air logistics center in Oklahoma) to get new procedures or changes in tech data,” he says. “We have to be one step ahead since someone is always out there trying to defeat our radar-beating capabilities.”

B-2 pilots fly whichever airplane is ready to go, and they don’t claim favorites. “I like the one that works and is ready to go,” Scar says. Not so for the personnel who maintain the infamously fickle plane.

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Hard Bites from a Good Dog

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It’s always fun to meet and greet the security personnel at military installations. That includes Roger the German shepherd, seen above biting my arm.

Warning signs are everywhere: “WARNING: Restricted Area. While on this installation all personnel and the property under their control are subject to search. USE OF DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED. Patrolled by military working dogs.” (Click here to download a PDF of the sign.)

The more sensitive the base is, the more interesting the weapons and tactics that protect it. At Whiteman, security teams secure the base perimeter, control all access points, protect the flight line and hangars, and safeguard the aircraft’s weapons. To do this, they use ATVs, up-armored F-350 trucks, and M4 rifles fitted with grenade launchers. Their ace in the hole: military working dogs.

The unit has 10 dogs—German shepherds, Belgian Malinois, and one charming black Lab—each with different skill sets. Some detect explosives, others can chase and subdue subjects. And some can do both, like Roger the German shepherd.

I shrug on a bite suit and meet Roger in a fenced-in practice area. He’s excited to see the suit—there’s a gleam in his eye I recognize from playful family pets. But this dog is coiled and ready for some carefully applied violence. “This is a game to him,” says his handler, Sgt. Keaton Mickle. “He knows what’s coming when he sees that gear.”

I figure the padded suit will protect my arms when the dog attacks, so much so that I won’t feel a thing. I’m wrong. As Mickle releases his dog, Roger becomes a brown blur. A snarling clamp falls on my arm—it doesn’t hurt but I can feel his teeth. The 70-pound dog applies at least 500 pounds of pressure per square inch. Pulling away does nothing but elicit a snorting growl and a tighter clamp.

The dog reluctantly releases me after a command from the sergeant, but I see he wants more. I could benefit from another encounter: There’s an innate, animal fear you feel when a dog bears down on you, and so I agreed to go again and pay better attention. The animal obliges—and chomps my other arm before I can register any thought but panic. They call Roger off me and I leave the cage impressed. When I pull off the protective suit there are shallow red welts on both forearms.

My time with the security team ends with a sunset trip to a firing range, where we shoot a score of practice rounds from an M203 grenade launcher mounted under an M4. The rounds are stuffed with orange dust; any Cheeto-colored bloom within a 5-meter radius of the target is considered a kill. After three rounds I ding a kill shot.

I look at those warning signs in a new light after the day’s events.

Projecting Power Over Sedalia, Missouri

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I meet my pilot, Scar, for the first time on the morning of my flight. As we enter the tightly secured operations building, we glimpse the Spirit of Georgia landing, her nose pointed down to depress the cushion of air under the heavy-lift-generating fuselage. The two-man crew will leave her to the jet’s crew chief, who will inspect the B-2 and ensure she’s ready for our flight.

There will be plenty of aircraft in the air during the training mission—three B-2s from Whiteman joined by two tankers. (One B-2, coming from Nevada, shows up too late to join the flight.) The bombers will rendezvous with the tankers at a modest 25,000 feet but at a typical 450 mph.

The first part of the 4-hour flight path—the refuel—follows a straight line. After we peel away from the tankers, our bomber (mission call sign Death 21) will perform a two-part bombing run. The bombing run will consist of two parts: first, a simulated Joint Direct Attack Munitions run; JDAMS are dumb bombs fit with GPS guidance packages) run on air defenses and enemy command bunkers. No real bombs will drop—we’re flying over populated areas of Missouri, not a practice range in Nevada.

In this scenario, we’re attacking a hypothetical nation’s command and control facilities and weapons of mass destruction launchers. The scenario imagines a pair of F-22 Raptor stealth fighters in the vicinity (the green circles on the board), making sure no enemy fighters disrupt our attack. B-2s have typically flown alone in defended airspace, but having a stealth F-22 on your wing is a welcome addition. These fighters can evade radar even better than a B-2 and can defeat anything in a dogfight. The B-2’s only real defense is stealth. “We hide,” Scar says simply. “That’s what we do.”

Scar is an elite pilot among elites. He graduated from Weapons School at Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada. The Navy’s famed Top Gun program takes nine weeks; Weapons School lasts six months. He can teach the tactics they taught him to the rest of the squadron. Being a stealth airplane means more than having the right shape and radar-baffling materials. It’s also a strategy. For example, the B-2 can be more easily spotted on radar from the sides and is a lot harder to detect head-on. So B-2 pilots plan an attack that keeps the angles in their favor, and that means jagged flight paths. Pilots call this “spike management,” for the way unwanted radar returns appear on the screens of air defense units.

After the GPS guided weapon run, Scar will reprogram the B-2’s weapons system to believe we’re also carrying a full load of 500-pound bombs. The flight plan calls for a tight loop, heading back close but not over Whiteman to simulate the destruction of a faux airbase with all 80 bombs.

There are chores to do before takeoff. One is a briefing with the crews of the other B-2s, who work through the flight plans, synchronize their watches, confirm their “get well” (prearranged emergency) radio frequencies, discuss who goes to which tanker and emergency maneuvers if something goes wrong. After a weather update (nothing to worry about but some moderate icing at 8000 feet), we fetch our helmets and oxygen masks.

Finally we head out to meet the Spirit of Georgia—or, in Air Force parlance, we “step to the airplane.” It’s time to fly.

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Where the B-2s Roost

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Seeing a B-2 is a memorable event for most people—something reserved for flyovers at big football games. Walking past several of them on the flight line—prepping for flight, running engine tests, coming in and out of maintenance—transforms them from icons into real aircraft with deadly serious purposes.

On the ground B-2s can look bulbous, but seen at a different angle, they can also appear paper-thin. Their baffling geometry can trick the human eye as well as a radar array. Still, B-2s strike targets at night to avoid being seen, and take pains to fly at altitudes that the weather officers tell them avoid contrails. “Stealth is only as good as the naked eye,” says Col. Robert Spalding, vice commander of the 509th.

Although B-2s can deploy from other airbases, like Guam, they can strike anywhere in the world from the security of this base in middle America. “There is no other country on earth that can hold all targets at risk from [inside their borders],” Spalding says. “We can do that from here, anytime, anywhere.”

Spirit 544’s Takeoff

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The only way into a B-2 is through the stepladder in the landing gear. Inside, the only place designed for human occupancy is the cockpit. It’s small but not cramped—though after a 30-hour mission I’m sure I’d feel differently. (The longest Air Force combat sortie, 73.3 hours, occurred in a B-2 on Oct. 7, 2001 from Missouri to Afghanistan and back.)

The cockpit is not luxurious. Behind the two seats is a 6-foot flat space where pilots can set up a cot to sleep. Many just sleep on the floor. “I can fall right to sleep anywhere,” Scar says. “Except, for some reason, the cockpit of a B-2.” There’s also a crude toilet—a stainless-steel bowl, no walls—behind the right seat, not too far from a bank of classified communications servers. The Air Force can launch the airplane from Whiteman and maintain secure connectivity anywhere on the globe.

We’re the second plane to take off. I watch the first B-2 take to the air through our bug-splattered windscreen. Scar tells me to flip the safety guard that preps the ejection handle. “That seat is hot,” he says. “So don’t touch that.” I nod enthusiastically, thinking about my suboptimal anthropometrics.

The cockpit is filled with the high-pitched whine of four engines (17,300 pounds of thrust each), and I speak with Scar by toggling a switch that activates a microphone in my oxygen mask. We lower our helmet visors and don fire-resistant gloves. Scar uses foot pedals to guide the Spirit of Georgia to the head of the runway. The base’s air traffic control tower clears Death 21 for takeoff. The airplane rumbles as we build speed; we reach the flight-plan-determined rotation speed, and Scar tips the nose up about 10 degrees.

The B-2 is a flying wing, a design that generates tremendous lift. The Spirit of Georgia pushes into the sky eagerly, and our mission is underway.

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450-mph Fill-up

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“In six minutes we’ll see a tanker,” Scar Sullivan says. We’ve been in the air for less than an hour, heading east at 27,000 feet to meet the KC-135 Stratotankers. The nation is marked with refueling tracks, imaginary lines on a map with entrance and exit points that are often used for these missions. Our track is No. 16, heading east.

Refueling 101: The airplane in need of fuel flies directly behind the tanker. The tanker extends a telescoping fueling boom. The end of the boom—the fuel nozzle—latches into a small hole in the receiving aircraft, and the fuel pumps as the conjoined aircraft fly in harmony.

I spot the Stratotanker. At 10 miles off, the 136-foot-long airplane is just a speck. The image of an aircraft becomes more distinct as we close the distance. Even with the flight plans filed, a negotiation with the tanker crew ensues across the radio. How much fuel does each B-2 want? Are there any training requirements the tanker jocks need help fulfilling?

All of this seems normal until we get within 1000 feet of the massive tanker. There is something totally illogical about edging to less than 10 feet of another airplane, and holding that position for minute after minute. It makes your brain freeze up.

What amazes me most is Scar’s mastery of the B-2. The controls in the two-seat cockpit are slaved—the stick in front of me is moving as the pilot adjusts his. So I can see every minute adjustment as he steadies the Spirit of Georgia, edging to within spitting distance of the Stratotanker. I can see the face of the boom operator staring at us from a small window in the rear of the KC-135. Happily, the air gets less choppy as we get closer. We’re so close that the B-2 is sharing the bubble of displaced air, the bow wave, behind the Stratotanker.

The B-2’s fuel port is on top of the fuselage, so Scar can’t tell how close the boom is to the bomber’s receptacle. He’s watching lights under the tanker plane’s fuselage that tell him to move forward, left or right. The frame of the windows is another solid indicator—he knows what the correct position looks like from his vantage.

Once the connection is made, a dashboard screen says LATCH and the fuel flows . . . and so does some light conversation. The National Guard’s 128th Air Refueling Wing, stationed in Milwaukee, is supplying our fuel. The fuel boom contains a radio hardline, so I toggle the switch that patches me into the other airplane. Scar tells them I’m a reporter. The boom operator promptly gives me a message to take to the world: The Packers will beat the Bears this weekend. (This turns out to be prophetic.)

“You’re flying with the best refueling crew in the country,” he adds.

“I sure as hell hope so,” I say, eyes fixed on the Stratotanker. The B-2 is a few feet beneath the tanker’s tail. Who the hell can think about football?.

As thousands of gallons of fuel flow, the B-2s flight control computer routes it to the appropriate tanks as a way to preserve the bomber’s center of gravity. Scar pulls up a digital screen and watches this process; he can override the computer if he feels he has a better solution.

To our left, 5 miles distant, the other B-2 is connected to the umbilical of the second tanker. It’s a mirror of what’s happening a few feet in front of me. The radio chatter informs us the other two aircraft will be practicing emergency separation procedures. I watch the B-2 bank away from the tanker with ease that doesn’t seem like a crisis maneuver. “Not many people get to see this,” Scar says.

The B-2 can fly 6,900 miles on a full tank, requiring as many as four aerial refuels during one globe-spanning mission. With the margin of error so minimal, I ask Scar what they do when they have to refuel in turbulence or foul weather. “We just have to do it,” he says, with more resignation than bravado. “I mean, we need the gas.”

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The Art of a Modern Bomb Run

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B-2 pilots don’t drop ordnance with bombsights and trigger pulls, but with buttons and keystrokes.

There’s a button on the B-2 console, just larger than a laptop key, which says PEN. This stands for penetration. When a B-2 pilot pushes it, it readies the jet to enter defended airspace—retracting any protruding antenna, restricting communication emissions, and reducing other telltales of the bomber’s presence.

Bombing runs are preprogrammed events, all part of the flight plan. The GPS coordinates of the targets are fed into the flight control computer on the ground, but they can be input by pilots in the air. The bomber calculates the time of release at the particular airspeed, and automatically opens the bomb bay doors to release the weapons from either a rotary launcher or a bomb rack.

We’ll destroy our first imaginary targets with 2000-pound JDAMs. Strakes and fins can adjust the weapon’s course in flight. This means a B-2 flying overhead at 40,000 feet can put a bomb through a particular window, or drop one after another on a single point to destroy buried targets. JDAMs and missiles are not just dropped: explosive bolts detonate during the release. Pilots feel these vibrations and feel the bomber adjust to the sudden weight loss during an actual bomb run. “You can feel the jet punch them out,” Scar says.

In our hypothetical run, the JDAMs will cripple the air defenses and command and control centers. This will clear the way for our real target: an enemy airfield. Our flight plan calls on us to destroy that airfield with a load of 500-pound bombs, delivered on specific GPS points along our looping flight plan.

These 500-pounders would fall away without an explosive mechanism—gravity alone takes them from their assembly in the bomb bay. Yet even without guidance, the B-2’s “dumb bombs” can achieve great accuracy. The airplane determines the airspeed, air density, and parameters that influence the drop and times the release so the bombs strike their determined targets. A B-2 pilot can program coordinates that create a smiley face of craters formed by 500-pound bombs. Published reports say the bombs from this type of rack can land within 500 feet of their target.

“Long-range aviation coupled with stealth, coupled with precision munitions, provides our national leadership significant negotiating power when dealing with international actors,” says Brig. Gen. Thomas Bussiere, 509th Bomb Wing commander. “Having the B-2 in your back pocket provides great incentive.”

Mission’s End

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Getting the Spirit of Georgia back to the ground is as easy as following the invisible Instrument Landing System radio signals beaming from the ground. But the B-2 is made to stay aloft, and it takes some coaxing for the airplane to give up the lift under her fuselage and finally set down.

Knowing that he has such a powerful autopilot, it’d be tempting to say that Scar had an easy ride, even with an untrained, inquisitive writer as a copilot. But he’s tired: not just from doing the work of two pilots during an aerial refuel, but from reprogramming a new flight and targeting plan from the air after a flight plan snafu. He demonstrated the B-2’s abilities, but also showcased modern piloting expertise—not just hand-eye skills, but a mastery of the flight control system and a superhuman ability to concentrate.

That minor malfunction we experienced may not be a symptom of age, but the cockpit (designed in the 1980s) is itself a reminder that the B-2 is celebrating its 20th year in active service this year. It has lasted this long with constant upgrades. It looks the same from the outside, but inside it’s a new machine. Personnel and contractors develop new ways of maintaining the aircraft and adapting them to face fresh threats with new capabilities.

There is a 10-year, $2 billion effort is underway to update the facilities and aircraft so it can fly until 2058. In one unclassified example of this constant flux, in late 2012 Northrop Grumman scored a $108 million contract to deliver a new integrated processing unit, a high-capacity disk drive, and a network of fiberoptic cable to enhance the B-2’s satellite communications.

“Sometimes it’s a little frustrating that we’re continually in a process of improvement,” Gen. Bussiere says. “But that’s how we maintain our competitive edge against any potential international adversary.”

Plans are underway to replace the B-2, but modern aircraft require decades of research and development. Even in a climate of cuts and sequestration, the chances for a high-dollar project are good: Air defenses are improving and more nations are expected to field weapons of mass destruction, so the White House wants to preserve its ability to take out any target around the world with little buildup or warning. The Pentagon is grappling with what it wants: manned or unmanned, nuclear capable or conventional weapons only, a dual-mission spy bird or just a dedicated bomber.

A new stealth bomber is coming. Until it does, the B-2 is here in Missouri, waiting for the call.