Authors: Richard Herman
The Warbirds (2 page)
The two individuals were subsequently identified as Lieutenant Jackson D. Locke and a civilian, Miss Abigail Pearson. Miss Pearson’s father was called and picked up his daughter from the Law Enforcement Desk at 0513 hours. An initial investigation revealed that Miss Pearson had been attending a party given by Lieutenant Locke in honor of her eighteenth birthday.
The squadron commander gave an expressive shrug of his shoulders as if to say, “Fighter pilots will be fighter pilots,” when he handed the report back to the colonel.
“Obviously, Colonel Fairly, you are more amused than worried about this incident. Perhaps you’ll feel differently knowing a member of your squadron has been cavorting in the buff with the daughter of the U.S. ambassador to Egypt, the Honorable Frederick Pearson, and that the same Honorable Frederick Pearson was on my base this morning retrieving his daughter from our Security Police. A business that I knew nothing about. Still amused?”
“Colonel, if you want, I’ll start checking on all the fornicators in my squadron and brief you every morning.”
The color in Colonel Shaw’s face started to rise. “Good God, no! With that bunch you sit on, it would take all morning. Besides, I lost my yen for pornography about fifteen years ago. But we are going to have to do something. Tell me about Locke.”
“Pretty much your standard-issue fighter pilot,” Fairly answered. “Twenty-four years old, came into the service
right out of college AFROTC. He’s a bachelor and makes an impression with the ladies. Also with some of the young married lovelies, but he cools that. And, he’s the best pilot in my squadron. All he needs is seasoning.”
“Is he such a big skirt-chaser that it’s going to influence his judgment?”
“He’s OK, he only needs maturing. Like I said, he’s had some pretty obvious propositions. He’s always handled that well. My wife claims that I wouldn’t be half as restrained.” Fairly’s answer satisfied the colonel. Too many of the fighter jocks in his wing were getting caught up in the fighter pilot image and losing their way, finding sex, alcohol and general hell-raising more to their liking than the daily business of responsible flying. Locke looked worth saving.
“OK, Mike, I’ll buy what you say. But I’m going to have to take some action. We need to put some salt on his tail and slow him down a bit. We’ve got to get his attention. Got any ideas?”
“Well, sir, I’d recommend some strong words and putting him in the Barrel for a week. That would be the same as confining him to quarters and he’ll have to hang around the squadron without a chance to fly. He’ll get the message.”
Shaw mulled over the suggestion for a few moments. His wing had a commitment to keep two aircrews on alert twenty-four hours a day. Two pilots and their wizzos, or more properly, Weapons Systems Officers (WSOs), had to be ready to man their aircraft within five minutes, ready to start engines. Because of the time requirement, the aircrews had to remain in the squadron or alert shack, and while there were eating and sleeping facilities available, it was very confining. Normally, two pilots and their backseaters would only stay on alert for twenty-four hours before someone else would replace them and go into the “Barrel.” One of the three squadrons would “pull” alert for a week, then pass it on to the next squadron.
The crews had never been able to figure out exactly why the wing had an alert commitment. Since Maintenance only kept the twenty-millimeter cannon loaded and the aircraft were never launched, they did not see much sense
to it all. There was one point of common agreement: they hated it.
The look on Shaw’s face warned Fairly that the colonel wasn’t convinced. “Sir, outside of flying, there is not a hell of a lot for my troops to do around here. Keeping them busy on the ground is a real headache. Take away the chance to fly, and you’re really punishing them.”
Fairly had touched on Shaw’s biggest morale problem: how to keep his people occupied in their spare time. It distressed the wing commander that it was affecting his pilots and wizzos. “OK, that’s what we’ll do,” he decided. “Bring him in.”
Fairly checked the outer office and found the young lieutenant talking to the secretary. Typical, Fairly thought, he practices charming any available female. Jack Locke marched into the office and reported with a sharp salute. The wing commander kept him standing at attention for a full thirty seconds before returning his salute. Shaw sized Locke up, noticing his properly trimmed hair, brightly shined boots, and flight suit that was properly adjusted, probably within the last few minutes. He fits the image of a fighter pilot, Shaw decided: just under six feet tall, a trim and athletic build, clear blue eyes.
“Lieutenant Locke, your conduct last night was reported on the Security Police blotter. It goes without saying that such actions cannot be tolerated and are unbecoming to an officer. I will not have my officers dancing bare-assed with young ladies around the BOQ.
Especially
a young lady who happens to be the ambassador’s daughter. Lewd conduct such as this is punishable by court-martial or nonjudicial punishment under Article Fifteen of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Granted, there are mitigating circumstances in this case. Since this is the first time you have been in trouble, I have little desire to end any career you might find in the Air Force.”
Shaw paused, partly for effect. “No doubt, you are aware that the presence of the U.S. Air Force in Egypt is new and we are having a difficult time convincing the Egyptians that we belong in the Middle East. We are here to help encourage the hotheads to leave their neighbors in peace. Any publicity resulting from such an escapade with
the ambassador’s daughter will not help our position with the Egyptians.
“Therefore, pending conversations with the ambassador, you are ordered to go low profile. It will depend on the ambassador’s reaction as to the final action I will take. To ensure your low profile, and as your squadron assumes alert tomorrow, you will be in the Barrel for the next seven days. Any questions?”
Jack studied the colonel, knowing that any rebuttal would be wasted breath. Forget mentioning that it had been a private party and the cops should not have entered his rooms unannounced in the first place. “No, sir.”
“One last thing, Lieutenant. If you ever again run around in public with your pecker hanging out, I’ll hang you up by it. Dismissed.” Fairly and Jack saluted the colonel and left the office.
Outside, Fairly said, “You were lucky this time, Jack. I don’t think the ambassador is going to say a thing about it.”
Jack glanced at his squadron commander. “Colonel Fairly, it was a private party. I don’t know who opened that door last night. Probably the same clown who made the complaint. For
this
I don’t get to fly for a week? A
week
?”
GRAIN KING
16 July: 0200 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0400 hours, Athens, Greece
The changeover crew of the reconnaissance aircraft slowly gathered outside base operations in the soft, early-morning dark. Colonel Anthony J. Waters glanced out the window as he and the aircraft commander, Captain Kelly, went through the routine of debriefing the crew they were replacing, checking the weather, and filing a flight plan for the upcoming flight. “I haven’t seen Cruzak yet,” Waters said.
“No sweat, Colonel,” the young captain beamed. “He won’t be late for a flight again. He’s already here doing loadmaster duties, helping the other crew clean the bird up before we take it. He’s going to be the highest flying janitor in the Air Force until he cleans his act up.”
Waters glanced at Captain Kelly with a look of resignation. The colonel liked the captain and he was a good pilot who could fly the RC-135 with a smooth and cool hand. But Sergeant Stan Cruzak was only the latest in a string of problems that plagued his crew, and Waters doubted that making the joker an acting loadmaster would help the situation.
Because of the highly sophisticated equipment in the rear of the aircraft, only personnel with a Top Secret Crypto clearance were allowed in the reconnaissance module aft of the flight deck. So when they were TDY (on Temporary Duty) away from their home base, only the crews that kept the aircraft constantly in the air had the necessary clearances to clean and service the cabin. The enlisted crew rotated the cleanup responsibilities, calling it “loadmaster duties,” hating every minute of it.
Normally, pilots in charge of Air Force aircraft were the commanders of the crew regardless of rank, and the cap
tain of this particular RC-135 insisted on maintaining every inch of his control over the radio specialists and translators that manned the module. But Waters was the module commander and in charge of their mission—intelligence gathering and monitoring communications. Supposedly, he didn’t have to concern himself with the more mundane problems of flying the airplane and looking after the crew. That fell to the aircraft commander, who took his orders from the module commander. So Waters felt like a highly paid passenger, something he chalked up to the Air Force’s having too many colonels and not enough jobs for them.
First Lieutenant William G. Carroll was waiting for them when they walked out of Ops and headed toward the heavily guarded plane. Waters liked the young intelligence officer, who was also the best translator on the crew. Carroll was dark complected, slender, of medium height, and had an easy manner that hid a high intellect. “Anything new for us to be worried about on this go-round?” the colonel asked.
“No, sir,” Carroll said. “All the crazies are quiet and nothing has changed since the last time we flew. Should be a quiet twelve hours. I’ll brief the flight crew after we take off.”
The two security guards who would fly on this mission met the crew at the break in the rope that surrounded the RC-135. The Air Force had assigned a security team to maintain a constant guard on its latest and most valuable reconnaissance platform. The RC-135 never took off without two guards and a K-9 guard dog on board in case the aircraft had to divert into a civilian field for an emergency. Although the guards knew each of the crew, they carefully checked the restricted area badge of each person before allowing them past the barrier. Waters was the last through and paused, aware that once they launched, the guards would be restricted to the small compartment at the crew entrance door with the dog for the long flight. “Hell of a way to mess up your day,” Waters said.
“No problem,” one replied, “if Cruzak will stop bothering the dog.”
A ground power unit was roaring nearby, supplying power to the aircraft, and Waters could barely hear the
angry barking and howling of the well-trained K-9 coming from inside the aircraft. “What the—” Waters strode quickly up the steps leading to the crew entrance door. He had never heard the dog bark before.
He caught up with the pilot as they pushed through the knot of people standing and laughing in the entrance. Inside, Cruzak was crouched on the deck on all fours, barking furiously at the dog that was in its cage, ready for the flight. The dog responded in kind and the two were setting up a tremendous wail. Waters stifled a smile and brushed his dark, unruly hair back, shaking his head in amusement.
“Cruzak! What the hell are you doing?” Captain Kelly shouted, adding to the confusion.
The sergeant twisted his head and looked at the pilot. He did not move from in front of the cage. “Sir! I’m the loadmaster on this United States Air Force aircraft, right?”
The pilot nodded, dumbfounded.
“I checked the regulations, sir! As loadmaster I am required to brief all passengers who are not regularly assigned crew members on safety procedures.” With that, he turned back to the dog and resumed his barking and growling.
The pilot stepped forward, reaching for the collar of the young sergeant. Waters grabbed the captain’s shoulder and pulled him back before he touched Cruzak. “Get this beast into the air, Captain Kelly. I’ll sort this one out.” The young pilot looked at Waters, relieved that he had taken charge of the problem, and retreated into the cockpit. Waters motioned the rest of the crew into the module. “Hold on, Stan. We need to talk.”
The dog quieted as the sergeant stood up. “What’s going, on Stan? You can do better than this.”
“Aah, Colonel,” he shrugged, holding his head down in front of the tall colonel, “the captain just gets bent out of shape over the wrong things. If he were like you, there’d be no problem.”
“Captain Kelly has to run the crew, you know that. You’ve got to help him or he can’t do his job.”
“That’s the problem, Colonel. He won’t
let
us help him.
He doesn’t tell us
when
to do our job, he tells us
how
to do it. And I know how to do my job better than anyone.”
Cruzak was right. The problem was not the sergeant; it was Captain Kelly. “OK, cool it for now. We’ll talk later.”
“Thanks, Colonel. I’ll do it right.” Cruzak hurried to his position, ready to work.
Waters had known for a week that Kelly needed to be replaced, but he had hoped the captain would get the crew under control. He hated the thought of making a decision that would ruin Kelly’s career. But he decided to do what was necessary after the mission was over. It’s time to retire, he thought. You’re going nowhere, in command of nothing, and hurting people you like.
16 July: 0515 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0715 hours, Alexandria, Egypt
The alert shack was an afterthought tacked onto Alexandria South Air Base. When the Americans had finally wrangled the Egyptians into letting them occupy the base built by the Russians during the early 1960s, they had found the buildings poorly constructed and in need of massive repairs. It would have been cheaper to tear most of them down and start over. But the Egyptian government would not allow any new construction on the base and the Americans were forced into a major renovation project using Egyptian labor.
After the wing had picked up the commitment to keep two Phantoms on alert, two trailers had been towed to a spot near the flight line for the crews to stay in. For some reason, that satisfied the Egyptians. The four crew chiefs that launched the alert aircraft occupied one trailer, and the pilots and WSOs the other. The sergeants had scrounged around and turned their trailer into a plush lounge where the air conditioner always worked. The officers’ trailer remained as it was delivered: barely livable. The two trailers’ official title, “Quick Response Alert Facility,” was quickly redubbed the “alert shack.”
Thunder Bryant rapped on the door of the bedroom where Jack was sleeping. “Yo’, Jack. Colonel Fairly has scheduled himself with Johnny Nelson in the backseat for
the Barrel today. He’ll be out here in about twenty minutes.” That would get the pilot’s attention and stir him into action.
A groan came from behind the bedroom door. “Can you meet me in the chiefs’ trailer in a few minutes?”
A crew chief welcomed Thunder with a mug of fresh coffee before returning to the window overlooking the flight line. The captain joined him, waiting for Jack to come out from the officers’ trailer. A dark frown drew his eyes into a squint when he saw a pretty young girl come out of the trailer first. “That boy is
thick
. Will he ever learn?”
“She was here two nights ago,” the chief said to Thunder. “The ambassador’s daughter? Where does he find ’em around this hole?”
Bryant shook his head. “Who knows? One day, that boy…” Thunder was aware that sooner or later he would have to stop running interference for his pilot. But protecting people and blocking for them was his nature. After all, he’d worked his way out of the ghetto in South Central Los Angeles by being the best guard in the history of L.A. high school football.
A scholarship to UCLA was a natural fringe benefit. There, he learned how much a guard could hurt someone when he didn’t do his job. In his sophomore year, the team’s phenomenal quarterback had become his best friend and during a hard-fought game, Thunder missed a block that let two opponents swarm over his teammate. The quarterback’s wrist was broken in the pileup and never correctly healed, ending his career in football. And while no one blamed Thunder for the accident, he saddled himself with responsibility for it.
After that, the young black man lost his enthusiasm for football and turned to his studies. Eventually, he was cut from the team and lost his athletic scholarship. But the Air Force offered him another one in ROTC, and with student loans he was able to graduate. Once in the Air Force, less than perfect eyesight kept him out of pilot training and led him into navigator training. Thunder found flying and the Air Force deeply rewarding. He mounted a well-thought-out attack on navigator training and graduated at the top
of his class, sweeping every honor the program had to offer. He was not surprised when he was assigned to F-4s, his first choice.
The young officer found a home in the fighter community and rapidly developed into the best WSO in his wing. When the Air Force asked for volunteers to open the base in Egypt, he jumped at the chance, instinctively aware of the opportunities that existed in a new unit. Three things happened to him at Alexandria South: he made captain, met Jack, and learned how to play. Out of desperation, Mike Fairly teamed Thunder with Jack, hoping the WSO could control the young lieutenant. It was a perfect match. Thunder was able to curb most of Jack’s impulsive behavior and Jack taught Thunder how to relax and have some fun.
Jack kissed the girl good-bye near the alert area’s parking lot and sprinted back to the chief’s trailer, bursting through the door. “Coffee, amigo?” he asked the crew chief.
“Later,” Thunder told him. “Maintenance is switching the alert birds. It’s preflight time. Tail number is 512.”
Jack faked a groan and headed out the door with the same enthusiasm as when he entered.
“Man, I’m teamed with a puppy,” Thunder grinned, picking up his flight gear and following Jack out to the bunker, where the Phantom sat.
The crew chief trailed after Jack during the preflight, proud of the conditioning of his bird and ready to question the pilot if he found anything wrong. “Take good care of her this time,” the sergeant told Jack. “OK? If you fly, don’t bring her back broke like last time.”
Jack nodded. 512 was the best-kept Phantom in the wing. It gleamed with the loving care the crew chief gave to an only child. Unfortunately, the chief’s personal hygiene did not meet the same standards. His fatigues were filthy and he needed a shower and shave.
“Hey, Chief, you want to stand downwind a bit?” The sergeant ignored Jack.
“Why are you back on alert?” Jack asked Thunder as they walked down from the preflight. He felt bad about his backseater pulling a second alert shift with him.
“Would you believe I got lonely?” Thunder changed the subject, not wanting to embarrass his friend. “Besides, we can lift some weights, maybe run some laps around the flight line.”
“What are you, a bloody drill sergeant?” Jack laughed.
16 July: 0930 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0930 hours, a village in Niger, Africa
The navigator, Major David Belfort, was lying on the floor of the flight deck next to the copilot’s seat, studying the heat-cracked landscape through the lower quarter window at the copilot’s right foot. The desert village the C-130 Hercules was circling for the third time was eighteen hundred miles to the southwest of Alexandria, Egypt, and nestled against small hills that helped protect it from the fury of the Sahara’s harsh climate. Belfort was wearing his headset to muffle the noise of the turboprop engines and didn’t like hearing the pilot and copilot argue whether they should land.
“I think we ought to hotfoot it back to Kano before we have to divert into a field to the north,” Toni D’Angelo argued.
“Relax, Toni,” Sid Luna told her. “We’ve got plenty of time to land, offload the food and still make it back. Besides, these people are hungry. That’s what Grain King is all about.” The copilot did not reply, accepting the pilot’s decision. She nudged Dave with her foot and gave him a thumbs-down gesture, indicating they were going to land.
Belfort’s gut told him the copilot was right—they should heed the latest weather warning she’d received. An unexpectedly large sandstorm was descending on them. But he didn’t say anything. After all, she could hold her own in any argument. She was also an excellent pilot, which surprised her macho skeptics.
The pilot turned onto final approach, calling for her to read the landing checklist. “Sid,” Toni warned, “those people are crowding the right side of the runway. Shade it to the left.”
“I’ve got ’em. No sweat,” Luna replied. The pilots
were not surprised to see the villagers crowding the narrow runway. They had seen it many times when they landed: starving, gaunt people, desperate for help.
Toni D’Angelo rechecked the landing gear and placed her left hand over Luna’s right hand, which controlled the throttles. It was a backup technique they had developed to prevent the pilot’s hand from bounding off the throttle quadrant on a hard landing. Sid flew the big cargo plane onto the exact point he wanted on the approach end of the runway. He planted the C-130 hard in a controlled crash, letting the main landing gear absorb the shock before slamming the nose onto the narrow dirt runway. He jerked the throttles back, throwing the four propellers into reverse to help brake their landing rollout.