Air Battle Force Page 18

  “Whatever,” Long interrupted. “It’s a stupid place for an airfield. That’s my bottom line. Let’s move on. We’ve had a lot of success with the EB-1C, and we’d like to maintain our string of successes. Unfortunately, General McLanahan’s recent mishap hasn’t helped our mission-effectiveness record.”

  “The crash in Diego Garcia?” Daren asked. “I remember something about it in the news.”

  “The mission was a disaster, we were embarrassed, we lost two unmanned drones and nearly lost a B-1 bomber, and we still don’t know exactly what happened,” Long said angrily. “But instead of getting his ass chewed out, characteristically, General McLanahan is treated like the conquering hero. He nearly closed down America’s most important Asian air base and disregarded orders that came from the Pentagon.”

  “He saved his plane and his crew,” Daren observed. “Crew prerogative—do whatever it takes to save your people and your aircraft. Who cares if it caused a mess on some ramp in Diego Garcia?”

  “General Furness saved the aircraft. It was probably McLanahan who pushed to keep on going with the mission.”

  “An operational test is still an operational mission—it just means the unit isn’t mission-ready,” Daren pointed out. “I’m sure the crew was responsible for bringing their plane back in more or less one piece.”

  “Apparently the Pentagon saw it the same way,” Long grumbled. He handed Daren a sheet of paper.

  “What’s this?” Daren asked.

  “What’s it look like, Colonel? Bold-print malfunction-procedures test. Required before every flight. Closed-book and solo effort. It needs to be one hundred percent correct, word for word, or you don’t fly. Turn it in before you step.”

  “I didn’t know there was going to be a test first,” Daren commented softly. He looked at the test—it was twice as long as any bold-print test he ever remembered having to take. “I haven’t had much time to study this stuff yet, John.”

  Long eyed the new squadron commander with a look of disgust. “Then maybe you shouldn’t be flying right away, Mace,” he said. “Maybe you need to get into the books a little more.”

  Daren did not respond. He knew he needed to get back into the tech orders, especially on this new aircraft, but he badly wanted to get back into the air. He didn’t want to spend three months in academics, just watching the rest of his squadron flying without him.

  Long shook his head, then shrugged his shoulders. “But the boss wants you flying as soon as possible, so I guess we’re going flying anyway,” he said. “Get together with your instructor pilot and complete the test before you step.”

  “You got it.”

  “I’ve built a qualification course for you and the other newbies in your squadron. You’ll start the flying phase of that course today.”

  “I appreciate that, John, but I think getting me stick time in these planes is a waste of everyone’s time,” Daren said. “It seems to me that I was hired for some other reason than to be a flying squadron commander. I need to know how they work, not how to fly them. General McLanahan has hinted about doing some special engineering mods to the fleet. I think I’d better be—”

  “Colonel, again, how about we do it my way until you’re up to speed out here?” Long asked irritably. “We’ve got you scheduled for several meetings with the folks from Sky Masters Inc. and the engineers at the Tonopah Test Range. You’ll get a briefing on the current project status and the completion timelines. Your job will be to ensure that they all meet the milestones—or give me a damned good reason why they missed it.”

  “I got a copy of the project timelines from the general. I think we can beat those deadlines,” Daren said. “We should think about bringing the engineering staff from TTR up here.”

  “As I’m sure you’ve noticed, there’s no place on this base for a one-hundred-person engineering staff,” Long said. “It’s easier for us to bring the planes to TTR than it is to bring everyone up here.”

  “Nah. I made visiting generals and heads of state stay in tents and trailers at Incirlik all the time—the engineers from TTR and Sky Masters can do the same. We’re the customer—they can do it our way. I should be studying the mission profiles and weapon characteristics and—”

  “If you’re not completely checked out as a primary crew member, Mace, you can’t even look at my aircraft,” Long said sharply. “It’s as simple as that. I’m not going to let any unqualified personnel near my planes. And since we’re the only unit that flies the EB-1C and there’s no lead-in school, I designed the training program that has been approved by the Air Force. You will follow it to the letter or you will get out of my wing. This wing will not go mission-ineffective because someone hasn’t done the basics.”

  “I’ll take responsibility for the mission-effectiveness of myself, my crews, and my planes,” Daren said firmly. “Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”

  He then handed Long a sheet of paper: the completed bold-print emergency-procedures test. He’d done it so quickly that Long didn’t even notice he was filling it out as they were talking. Long checked it carefully, but he needed only a moment to realize it was perfect—every word, even every punctuation mark, exactly in place.

  “I may not have any command experience, Colonel,” Daren added, looking directly into Long’s eyes, “but I guarantee you one thing: I know systems. I eat, sleep, and dream systems. I read tech orders in the fucking bathroom.”

  Long met his gaze—but only for an instant. He looked away and remarked, “Now, there’s an image I’d rather not have.” He crumpled up the test and threw it in the direction of a nearby wastebasket. “I’ve got your instructor pilot coming by soon.” He looked at his watch. “Grey better not be late,” he grumbled under his breath.

  “Sorry I’m late, sirs,” Daren heard a voice say. He turned—and saw what looked like the youngest crew member in a flight suit he’d ever seen. The guy—kid, Daren thought at first, then corrected himself—set his documents bag on the dais, then quickly extracted some paperwork.

  “Make us wait again, Grey, and you’ll be ramp monkey for another week,” Long warned. Apparently, Daren thought, around here being ten minutes early for a briefing was considered late. Long motioned to the young officer. “Colonel, this is First Lieutenant Dean Grey. Grey, Colonel Mace, your new squadron CO.”

  Grey, a tall, lanky guy with a high forehead, very close-cropped spiky blond hair, and—of all things—a pinhole in his left earlobe for an earring, stepped over and enthusiastically shook Daren’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you, sir,” Grey said.

  “Dean Grey? ‘Zane’ Grey—the guy that led the Air Force Academy to an NCAA championship in men’s volleyball? Cover of Sports Illustrated? Rumors of you and Anna Kournikova, Gabrielle Reece . . . ?”

  “The same, sir,” Grey said. When he smiled, it made him look five years younger.

  “No offense, Zane, but . . . exactly when did you get your wings?” Daren asked. “Didn’t all the Sports Illustrated and Playboy interviews happen just last year?”

  “Yes, sir,” Grey said with his boyish grin. “Got my wings last month.”

  “Last month?”

  “General McLanahan likes ’em young, as you’ll readily find out,” Long moaned, shaking his head wearily. “Average age of the entire squadron is just a wet dream or two past puberty. Same with all the squadrons we’re standing up around here. Now, if we could postpone the trip down memory lane for another time?”

  “Sure, John.”

  “Get to it, Grey,” Long ordered.

  “Yes, sir.” To Daren he began, “Welcome to Battle Mountain and the Fifty-first, sir. I’m your acting executive officer. Anything you need or want, just let me know, and I’ll take care of it.” He gave Daren a card with binder holes punched in it. “I took the liberty of writing out a list of all the squadron personnel with their ratings, schools, experience—”

  “Already did it,” Daren said, flipping to the pages in his personal “plastic brains” b
ooklet. “I got the dope from General Furness. I went through the entire roster—we’ve got some stellar personnel here on the patch, all right. I also got a status report on all our present and future airframes and their mod status.”

  “Excellent, sir,” Grey said. “Our mission today is a standard-flight-characteristics orientation flight for mission commanders. As you know, sir, the Vampire uses pilot-trained navigators in the right seat, so MCs need to be well familiar with all phases of flight. The standard profile for this mission is to observe, but we like to accelerate the program, so we’ll give you as much as you can handle. We’ll show you once, then have you try it.”

  “We’re not going low today?” Daren asked.

  “Where have you been the past five years, Colonel?” Long asked with a smile.

  “We . . . we don’t go low anymore, sir,” Grey said.

  “You don’t go low-level in the B-1?” Daren asked incredulously. “Why in the world not?”

  “Well, a few reasons,” Grey replied. “The main reason is, the standoff weapons we use have a longer range when launched from high altitude—Longhorn’s range is thirty percent greater, and Lancelot’s range is almost fifty percent greater. Second, we’re stealthier and faster now—we don’t need to go low, even against pretty substantial fighter coverage or advanced SAM systems. Third, we make great use of smaller attack-and-reconnaissance drones that map out the enemy defenses pretty well, long before we go in. What threats we can’t destroy, we circumnavigate. And, of course, flying away from the cumulogranite is safer—”

  “Whoa. Pardon me, boys. I was with you on the first reason, but not the last three reasons,” Daren said. “You’re already relying on a lot of technology to do the job for you. There’s no reason to hang it out even further by staying up high in a heavily defended area. We should practice going low at every opportunity. We can build a certification program. Certain equipment status and training proficiency earns a crew the distinction of going low, into the heavier-defended areas; other not-so-qualified guys can stay up high and lob in cruise missiles. And ‘safety’ seems a funny thing to be considering when we’re talking about going to war or employing weapons like this. We should—”

  “Let’s concentrate on the basic flight-training program you’re going to undergo, Colonel,” Long said. “Flight characteristics for the first couple flights, then emergency procedures, then air refueling.”

  “We’re not doing air refueling today either?”

  “Is English not your primary language, Colonel?” Long asked perturbedly. “You’ve got to master the basics before you do the more advanced procedures. I built this training program to get new crew members with no recent B-1 experience up to maximum proficiency in minimum time. After air refueling, we’ll move on to instrument-pattern work, visual-pattern work, and then we go into the strike stuff.” He got to his feet. “You haven’t been operational in many years, Colonel, and even when you were, you were . . . less than reliable.” He hesitated, looked at Grey, then made a wordless show about not revealing what he was thinking. “Do it my way, Colonel. Is that clear?”

  “Sure, John,” Daren replied. Long looked as if he really, really wanted to chew on Mace for calling him by his first name in front of the younger officer, but decided to save it for later.

  After the protracted, uncomfortable pause ended, Grey glanced over at the crumpled-up paper by the wastebasket. “I see you passed your bold-print test,” he said. “Outstanding.” It made Daren wonder what Long did with the tests that weren’t perfect—probably kept a file to use against the crewdogs. “We have about an hour until we step, so let’s talk about local procedures before we get into discussing stalls, falls, crashes, and dashes for a few moments.” Grey handed out flight plans, kneeboard cards, target-prediction cards, and weather sheets, all organized and stapled together. “I went ahead and filed our flight plan, got the weather—”

  “Hold it a second. We do all that as a crew, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir, but I thought since the weather’s clear in a million, we’re not going terrain-following, and we’ve got the MOA and ranges to ourselves, we’d spend a bit more time talking about the plane, you know, getting acquainted. . . .”

  “You don’t freelance training missions, Lieutenant,” Long interjected hotly. “You’re going to fly a two-hundred-million-dollar supersonic bomber, not go on a fucking date with a Russian tennis babe.” He flipped through the briefing cards—they were complete, perfectly legible, and perfectly organized. Grey was right: The weather for everything west of the Rockies, and every alternate military field within a thousand miles, was clear as a bell with no restrictions. “But now that you’ve completely screwed up the sequence, you might as well proceed. Let’s go. You don’t have all day.”

  “Yes, sir.” Grey handed Daren more checklist pages. “Here is a list of local frequencies, step procedures, taxi and departure procedures, phone numbers in case the duty officer is on the fritz—”

  “Got ’em,” Daren said. “I got all that stuff from General Furness, too. I studied them last night, but be sure to watch my back in case I screw something up.”

  Grey nodded, impressed. Daren noticed that even Long was nodding approvingly. That made Daren feel good—until Long added, “I hear you and Rebecca used to be a hot and heavy item, Colonel.”

  The motherfucker, Daren thought, bringing something like that up in front of a junior officer. “Let me tell you about Rebecca, John,” he said with a conspiratorial smile. He motioned Long to lean toward him. When he did, Daren stuck his face in Long’s and said loud enough for Grey to hear, “None of your fucking business, Colonel.”

  Long’s head snapped back as if Mace had head-butted him. He narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth as if he were going to yell at Mace, then shut it, embarrassed, opened it again as if he’d reconsidered, then blinked in confusion. Daren didn’t wait for him to sort it out any further. “Let’s get on with the briefing, Zane,” he prompted, still glaring at Long.

  “Yes, sir,” Grey said, hiding a very amused and pleased smile. About time someone told off the DO, he thought. “Open your ‘plastic brains’ to the air-work checklist, and let’s get started.”

  As Grey began his briefing, Long made a big show of checking his watch, then slipped out of his seat and exited the lounge.

  “Sorry about that, Zane,” Daren said after Long had left. “He had it coming.”

  “I didn’t see a thing, sir,” Grey said with a smile.

  “Who peed in his cornflakes this morning?”

  “I hate to say it, sir,” Grey said, “but I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So tell me, what was it like to play in the NCAA championships, Zane?” Daren asked excitedly. “Man, it was very cool to watch. You running halfway up the bleachers to save that last volley and then spiking the ball from the bleachers was awesome. First volleyball game I ever saw on TV.”

  “It was like living a dream, sir,” Grey said. “I look at the trophies and pictures on the wall, and I still can’t believe we did it.”

  “So the question the whole male world wants to know: Anna or Gabrielle? Or both together?”

  “That has the highest classification level, sir,” Grey said. But his mischievous smile told Daren everything he wanted to know.

  “And tell me, what’s it like working here?”

  Grey’s smile grew even wider. “It’s another dream come true,” he said sincerely. “In a lot of ways it’s pretty austere—nothing as cushy as how we had it in pilot training. But the stuff we’re doing is two or three generations beyond anything else I’ve ever seen. You really feel like you’re riding the wave into the future.”

  “Sounds good to me. And how about the brass?”

  “They’re okay. Even Colonel Long is a good guy—and I’m not just saying that to cover my butt either,” Grey said with a sly smile. “You can’t help but work in the Lair or
in the command center and not be aware of the awesome things we’re doing. I think that feeling extends to everyone, from General McLanahan on down. This place is special, and everyone knows it, but it’s so . . . you know, out there, unworldly—that no one cops an attitude around here. I think we all realize that this is so high-tech and futuristic that we can all be shelved in a heartbeat, so we’re all trying hard not to screw up.”

  “I think I understand,” Daren said. “Makes me wonder why I’m here—but I guess I’m thankful to be anywhere.”

  They bullshitted for a few more minutes. Grey asked the questions this time; Daren knew he was collecting “intel” to share with his squadron mates on the new boss.

  Finally Grey said, “It’s just about step time, sir. We’d better get going.”

  “Hold on, Zane,” Daren said. “You mean to tell me I’m really going to go through this flight-orientation program?”

  “That’s my understanding, sir.”

  “Call me ‘Daren’ when the bosses aren’t around, or ‘skipper,’ or ‘lead’—anything but ‘sir,’ okay, Zane?” Daren asked. “You’re making me feel pretty damned old.”

  “Colonel Long mapped out your orientation program, skipper. What do you have in mind?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you,” Daren said. “My dad was a cutter skipper in the Coast Guard, one of the big Bear-class boats, and what he said was the most important thing for the boss to do: use all your toys.”

  “Sir?”

  “If you got guns, shoot ’em; if you have a helicopter, fly in it; if the captain has a barge, take it out and cruise around in it. I’ve got a bunch of B-1 bombers here—I want to fly ’em. I’ve got weapons, I assume—I want to pop a few off. I don’t just want to bore holes in the sky—I want to drop some iron and make things blow up in a loud, messy fashion. Let’s go flying.”