Battle Born (21 page)

“The place is amazing, Muck. You know how you can tell how a unit is going to function as soon as you walk in just by looking at the floors? I knew these guys had their shit together the minute I walked in there. The floors are so clean you can eat off them. They look like they
polish
their weapon-jammers and tow bars, not just clean them.”

“Every unit spit shines their gear when an inspection team’s on base,” Patrick pointed out.

“But you can usually tell if the spit shine is cosmetic, done once a year, or if it’s done regularly—and around here, it’s obviously done a lot,” Dave said. “Besides, this was a no-notice inspection—there was no time to spit shine every tool, every shop, every workbench, every rack. It was already done. And remember, this unit
thought they were on their way to Ellsworth or Dyess for their pre-D. Why clean every piece of equipment
before
dragging it all off station?

“A big help around here is the crewdogs,” Luger went on. “The flight crews are right there with the maintainers, assisting and checking. Their attention to foreign-object damage control is the best I’ve ever seen—we can take some lessons from them. They aren’t afraid to go up to an inspector and get on his case for dropping a pencil or not checking vehicle tires for FOD.”

“Good.” Patrick knew that was true. A buck sergeant had admonished him—politely but firmly—for placing a checklist clipboard down on the ramp. The nearest running engine was at the adjacent parking spot almost three hundred feet away, but the danger of having a gust of wind or a vehicle push the checklist close enough to get sucked into a seven-million-dollar jet engine was too great to take a chance. “So we’ve got seven birds uploaded and ready to fly?”

“Seven in the green, fueled, armed, and ready,” Luger replied. “These guys pull together well. They’d be hard to distinguish from an active-duty unit. I have no doubt they can surge their birds for as long as we want.”

“Overall rating?”

“Excellent,” David replied. “In critical mission-essential areas, I rate them an ‘outstanding.’”

“Very good.” Patrick turned to Hal Briggs. “What have you seen, Hal?”

“Ditto,” Briggs replied. He was a wiry black man who always seemed in perpetual motion, always animated and excited, with dark dancing eyes and a quick smile. But Patrick had also seen him kill with equal joy. Until the death of his mentor, Brad Elliott, Hal’s favorite sidearm had been a rare .45-caliber Uzi submachine
gun—now it was Elliott’s ivory-handled .45-caliber Colt M1911A1 Government autopistol.

“As you know, me and a couple of my white boys and girls arrived a couple of days ago to poke around and do some security probes,” Briggs said. “We tried everything—the janitor routine, the telephone man routine, the sneak-and-peek routine, everything but a full commando assault. For a unit located on a commercial civilian airfield, their security is pretty damned good. They practice good COMSEC procedures all the time. Airport security is typical—lousy—but security tightens quickly as you get closer to the Guard ramp. Good K-9 unit, good use of manpower, good rotation procedures, good challenge and response and use of authenticators.

“I found a few unlocked doors and open gates and was able to get close enough to hand-toss some fake grenades at a plane in a fuel dock. We found one bag of shredded classified material in a Dumpster, but it was confetti-shredded and unreadable—still a violation, but not a serious one. Never got access to a plane, never got near their command post or their classified documents vault. Couldn’t hack into their classified computer server. Bought lots of drinks, but we couldn’t get one single Guard guy in a bar to talk about anything even remotely approaching classified topics—even had one guy report his contact to Furness, who filed the report with the adjutant general, state police, and Air Force Office of Special Investigations at Beale Air Force Base. Rating: ‘above average’ overall, ‘excellent’ in critical areas.”

“Good,” Patrick said. “What do you have, Nance?”

“I sound like a broken record, Patrick, but I give them an overall ‘above average’ and an ‘excellent’ in mission-essential areas,” Lieutenant Colonel Nancy Cheshire replied. Cheshire, a petite dark-haired woman in her late thirties with large doe eyes and a little button
nose, was one of the Air Force’s toughest and most talented test pilots. She was the first female pilot to fly the B-2A Spirit stealth bomber, but her real accomplishments had come as Dreamland’s first and greatest female test and combat pilot, flying three secret missions in experimental B-52 bombers over the past several years. Now she was the chief test pilot of the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center.

“It was a pleasure to watch these Guard guys go to work,” she continued. “The battle staff, operational support squadron, and command post performed flawlessly in all the scenarios. Good security procedures, good time control, good use of checklists and command doctrine. One overdue situation report and one brain-fart with a radio frequency that broadcast a coded message on an open frequency prevented them from getting an overall ‘outstanding.’

“I was primarily concerned about the mobility line, but that’s where this unit really earns an ‘outstanding’ score. It must be the unit’s recent history with C-130 transports, but these guys run a mobility line more efficiently than anyone I’ve ever seen. Excellent use of computers, with most programs custom-written for this unit. Almost no wasted time. But the key is the folks going through the line, and I’ve got to say that this unit has got the procedures down cold. Everyone had updated records, everyone had current vaccinations, everyone had their required gear. This unit was
waiting
for their transportation to arrive. It’s a small, close-knit unit, true, but these folks are revved up and ready to fight.”

“They can generate, they can pull alert, and they can mobilize,” Dave Luger summarized. “The big questions now are . . .”

“Can they fight, and can they deploy and
then
fight?” Patrick finished for him. “Maybe it’s time to
load ’em up a bit and see how much mayhem they can take.”

Nancy Cheshire gave an evil grin. “You gonna make it hurt, Muck?”

“This is not a training situation here,” Patrick replied. “I want to see what they got. It might hurt a little.” He nodded to all of his staff officers around him. “Thanks for all your hard work, guys. Unclassified summary reports in my e-mail box by sixteen hundred hours today; classified summaries by tomorrow morning. I’ll see you at Tonopah.”

Suppressing yawns, they all left the StepVan except for Dave Luger. “How are preparations for Lancelot progressing back at the home drome?” Patrick asked.

“General Samson has got the Lancelot modification kits ready to go for the first two planes—we just need the planes and we’re ready to go,” Luger replied. “He received authorization for two more kits. By the time we’re ready to fly one and two, we should be starting work on three and four. Leaving one for a ground training article, that should leave us with three operational birds in two to three months.” He paused for a moment, then added, “From what I’ve seen so far, we might be looking at our best candidates right here. The birds are in excellent shape; the maintenance guys are top-notch; they have good facilities and good support. What do you think?”

“I don’t know, Dave,” Patrick replied uneasily. “I agree, the machines are in good shape—it’s the aircrews I have a problem with. These guys have a real cocky attitude. Furness delights in telling everyone to go to hell, and it’s rubbed off on her troops. They were mouthing off at the adjutant general right to my face, all of them. Rinc Seaver is the worst of the bunch—the best, but the worst.” Patrick got up, stretched, then told their driver to head over to the squadron building.

“The force is different from when we were pulling a crew, Muck,” Dave said. “Since the Strategic Air Command’s bombers were absorbed by the Tactical Air Command, all the crewdogs are like fighter jocks—they’re cocky, tougher, more aggressive, more competitive, and lots smarter. The force is smaller and leaner, which means that only the best of the best get to fly. And the Air National Guard is all that and more. They’re like a pack of wild starving wolves fighting over who’s going to kill the caribou. I don’t think we need to straighten
them
out—I think it’s
us
that needs to realize what the modern-day force is like.”

“Maybe so,” Patrick said grumpily, suddenly feeling very old. “But some of them can still use a good dose of whup-ass.”

Luger watched his longtime friend stifle a jaw-breaking yawn. “You ready to fly, partner?” he asked with a smile. “It’s been—what, five years, six?—a long time since you’ve been in a B-1.”

“I’ll be fine, Dave,” Patrick said. “I know the Bone like the back of my hand—”

“I’m talking about
you
, partner,” Dave interrupted. “It’s been about a year since you ejected out of the Megafortress. Are you ready to start flying again?”

“I
have
been flying for the past year or so, Dave . . .”

“I don’t mean flying prototypes, simulators, test beds with a bunch of engineers, or the BERP suit—I mean flying a real sortie with a real crew, as
part
of the crew,” Luger interrupted again. “You don’t have to do this, you know. Nancy can give Seaver an evaluation, and I can certainly let you know if these guys are the real deal or just hot dogs. Besides,” he added with a serious expression, “you old guys need more sleep.”

Patrick scratched his nose with an uplifted middle finger, making sure Luger got the message, then clasped
him on the shoulder. “I’ll be fine, partner,” he said. “This will give me an opportunity to get back into the real world. I’m looking forward to this.”

Dave nodded. “Then go get ’em, Muck,” he said. “I’ll be on the SATCOM if you need me.” Patrick nodded, successfully stifling another yawn. They were silent for a moment. Then: “You can always take command of the squadron,” Dave said.

If Patrick had been a bit drowsy a moment ago, he now looked as if he had been blasted awake by heaven’s trumpets. He stared at his partner in utter surprise and asked, “What did you say, Dave?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of it already,” Luger said, grinning. “If Furness can’t control her troops, she deserves to get taken down a peg or two. She’s treating this squadron like her own personal plaything, true, but the operative word is ‘her.’ Take it away from her, even for a short time, and then see what kind of commander she is. If she straightens out, good. If she doesn’t, you’ve saved the state of Nevada the task of removing her, and you’ve still created a better unit. Plus, you get your first command.”

“Dave, my job is to give this evaluation and report back to Samson, not pirate an Air National Guard command,” Patrick said. “Besides, I’ve got a job. I’ve got a dozen projects that need my attention. I can’t just leave—”

“Ah, the first sign of mental illness—thinking that you’re indispensable,” Dave said. Patrick scowled at him, then shook his head, laughing it off. “Muck, I know you. You’re not a desk jockey. You’re a crewdog. You’ve always been one and you’ll always be one, no matter how many stars you wear. But you’re also a one-star general in the United States Air Force, and that means you command. This Lancelot unit is going to be your creation—why not take command of it?”

“Dave, the idea is nutzo,” Patrick said, shaking his head. The StepVan pulled up in front of a squat concrete building. Patrick grabbed his flight gear and manuals and headed for the door. “I’m not here to replace Furness or kick her ass or teach her how to fly the Bone—I’m here to observe and report. That’s all I’m going to do, and then I want to go home to my wife and son and my work that’s piling up back at Dreamland.”

“Yes,
sir
,” Luger said, obviously not believing a word of it. “Have a good flight . . . commander.”

A security guard posted inside the front door of the squadron building called the squadron to attention as Patrick walked in. “As you were,” Patrick responded as he showed his ID armband to the guard. Even with a major exercise going on, someone still thought about calling the unit to attention when a senior officer entered the building. Just as his staff said in their preliminary exercise report—impressive.

Patrick found Lieutenant Colonel Rebecca Furness in one of the squadron mission planning rooms a few minutes later, writing a schedule on the whiteboard with felt-tip markers of various colors. “Morning, Colonel,” he said.

“General,” Furness responded. “Briefing in fifteen minutes. Coffee’s in the Casino. I’ll get one of the guys to help you find things.”

“I’ll find it,” Patrick said. He walked back to the “Casino,” the squadron’s lounge, found a guest coffee mug, and poured himself a cup. Cripes, Patrick thought, even each squadron member’s coffee cup was clean—he never remembered seeing such a spotless coffee bar back at his old B-52 base. There was beer on tap—with a pair of fuzzy dice tied around the beer tap handles, signifying that the bar was closed. There were
a few slot machines, some pinball and video games—all unplugged—and a big popcorn maker, with all the fixings for jalapeño popcorn, where they mixed chopped jalapeños in with the cooking oil. There was a “crud” table, which looked like a regular billiard table except there were no pool cues around, meaning that the balls had to be propelled by hand as the players raced around the table in a sometimes physical free-for-all. Over the bar, the squadron’s “Friday” name tags were on display, with each flier’s call sign on the patch instead of his first and last names.

Like all of the TV sets Patrick saw all over the base, the lounge’s TV was on and tuned to CNN. As it had been for the past several weeks, the international news was about North Korea. One of the planet’s last Communist states had barely come through last winter intact. Hundreds of thousands of citizens had died of starvation, sickness, and exposure because of a lack of heating oil, food, and medicines. There had been yet another unsuccessful attempt on President Kim Jong-il’s life; the perpetrators had been arrested, publicly tried, and publicly executed by firing squad, all of this shown around the world on CNN. President Kim then executed several military officers on charges of conspiracy, treason, and sedition. Food riots were commonplace; all were harshly, even brutally, repressed by government forces.