He considered this comment for a moment. She was the last person he needed to talk to this time of night. The phone call stirred unsettled emotions. Unsure if he was angry or sad; the confusion bothered him.
“Bethany, I thought you remarried.”
The silence on the other end of the line was deafening. She had married the movie director she had the affair with. As it turned out, he wasn’t really a director. Jason had caught them screwing on their couch when he’d returned from a trip to England over a year ago. It was the first time in his life he had to wait for a guy to put pants on, so he could kick his ass.
“I don’t love him. I’m going to leave him. I want you, Jason. If we—”
“Look, it’s late, I need to study, and have to wake up in six hours. I’ve got to go. Good night.” Jason slammed the receiver down, his mind spinning. There was no way he would accomplish anything here. He gathered his books and left for his study session.
* * *
* * *
* * *
LENNY BANKS HATED TO STUDY. Even more, he hated to study subjects he already understood. He sat sprawled in front of his computer monitor, his feet propped up on his bookcase, clicking his mouse through America On-Line.
It was late. The four of them—Jason, Lenny, Vince Andrews, and Matt Carswell—crowded into Lenny’s small dorm room. Jason sat on the floor in front of the window, tapping his pencil on his forehead. Matt sat on Lenny’s bed, his notes and flight publications spread out all over it. Vince took up residence in the middle of the floor, stretched out, flipping through the current copy of Air Force Magazine.
“Call me crazy, but what the hell do they want for an answer on question fourteen?” Matt said. A pudgy Georgia red-neck, Matt was raised in Marietta, on the outskirts of Atlanta. A proud Georgia man, he refused to admit his family had lived at one time across the border in Brewton, Alabama. Matt’s deep brown hair cut was high-and-tight, like a Marine.
“What is it?” Jason scanned the workbook pages to find the question.
“They’re asking what causes the aircraft to spin.”
“Stall and yaw,” Jason said. “Remember when Captain Harrison talked about how we’ll spin the jet when we hit the flight line? You raise the nose to bleed off airspeed, then as the aircraft starts to buffet and shake—”
“—at the critical angle of attack,” Lenny added.
“Yeah, at the critical angle of attack, you feed in some rudder to yaw the aircraft, and off you go.”
“Okay then, tell me this—if we use rudder to induce the spin, why do we use the rudder to recover from it?”
“Uh, excellent question,” Jason said. “What’s up with the rudder on the spin recovery, Vince?”
“Ask Lenny, he knows everything.” Vince focused on his magazine. His dark hair was combed back across his forehead, held in place by mousse or hairspray. Deep gray eyes showed little patience for those around him.
“What’s the matter, Mister max-every-test-so-far?” Lenny said. “Afraid you don’t know?” Lenny had more flying experience than anyone in the class. His father had a private pilot’s license but wanted his son to be the fabled military aviator that he never had the chance to be. Papa Banks made sure his boy took to flying at an early age. Most kids would have died for an opportunity like that, but his interests lay elsewhere. Yes, he enjoyed flying, but he was much more at home behind a computer.
“I will by test-time, you damn nerd. Isn’t that when it counts?” Vince glared at Lenny with contempt, as if he had disturbed his concentration during a complicated task.
“Yeah, in your dreams.”
“Fella’s, thanks for the entertainment, but why don’t one of y’all help me out here,” Matt said.
“By putting the rudder in,” Lenny started to explain, ignoring his angry classmate, “you’re throwing the rudder into the slipstream creating more drag. Remember, Harrison called it the ‘barn door effect’ because it’s like sticking a barn door out into the wind. That, in conjunction with pushing the stick forward, allows more air flow over the wings to break the stall and get the airplane flying again.”
“Hoo-rah.” Vince flipped through his magazine. “Give the man a beer.”
“Speaking of beer,” Matt said, “Gus says we might buy a keg over at Chicaros for a flight party.”
Lenny turned from his computer. “Hey, I hear there’s a pretty hot waitress working there.”
“Whoa, man,” Matt said. “Her name is Kathy. Major babe, major babe.” His slight hint of a Southern accent all but disappeared when he got excited. “I met her when I first got here. I think I’m in love.”
“Well, don’t get to attached, pal,” Lenny said. “Once she meets this flyboy, she’ll be hooked.”
“Yeah, right, you pencil-neck geek. Like she’s going to fall for your sorry ass,” Vince said. “No chance for you. She’s more like Comrade Conradski’s type here.”
“No thanks,” Jason shook his head. “A woman is not what I need.”
“What are you, gay?” Matt asked.
“No, divorced. Six months now.”
“Ouch, partner. What happened?”
The three listened to Jason review his marriage with Bethany. The two of them had met while they were in college. A lovely creature with strawberry blond hair and the figure of a model. Bethany quit college to pursue a career making television commercials in New Orleans after they began dating. Like many others, she had hoped to become an actress in Louisiana’s ever-increasing film industry. The relationship had been a steamy one, based on physical attraction and plenty of sex. Her career as an actress fell flat as the opportunities dried up. His senior year, she seemed very much at ease with the idea of marriage. After all, it had appeared her career was not going anywhere.
They were married in a small church in Baton Rouge. Jason’s mother and father had divorced before he was born. He had invited his father to the wedding, but he never responded. In fact, he’d never actually met his father until a few months ago.
With Bethany, he should have seen the signs—constant trips to New Orleans without him, her getting a job in a nightclub, and not wanting him to bother her at work. Bethany’s drinking increased, and she became more secretive. Next came the ultimate cop-out: complaining about his future in the Air Force. She said she did not want to compete with his airplanes. The affair was inevitable, yet he failed to see it coming. He recounted his trip to England to fly on the B-25 for the D-Day celebration. It was the trip of a lifetime, he told them, but she had chosen not to go. He glossed over the consequences of that experience, focusing on her actions.
“Well, I came home a couple of days early. Caught her screwing some guy on our couch.”
“Man, that sucks.” Matt sat back, arms folded and nostrils flaring. “Guys catch crap all the time, and the damn chicks act like they never do that stuff.”
“The worst thing, she acted as if it was no big deal, like I found her going through my mail or something. She thought I was supposed to expect it. I thought I knew her, but I guess I didn’t.”
“Do we ever truly know the women we fall in love with?” Lenny rested his forearms on his knees as he queried his classmates. “Do we even know our friends? Everybody has a past, and everybody has his vision of the future and how it should be.”
“Ah, this is getting a little deep here, guys. Let’s talk about airplanes,” Matt said.
“Don’t worry, Jason, it’ll pass,” Lenny said. “Just keep pressing forward, putting one foot in front of the other. Jet training should take your mind off some of this stuff. Take some time, refocus, and then get out there and start dating again. You’ve got to walk before you can run.”
“Thanks,” Jason said, standing to leave.
“Of course, this school is so hard, you might want to start off with baby steps.” Matt laughed, along with Jason and Lenny.
“You’re a loser, Conrad,” Vince said, stretching on the floor.
“Up yours, Vince,” Jason sa
id.
Vince pushed himself off the floor and lunged at Jason, who dropped his books and took a defensive stance. Lenny and Matt jumped between the two. Vince looked surprised at Jason’s quick reaction and backed off, immediately. Lenny couldn’t figure out what set Vince off, but the situation diffused itself as quickly as it started.
“Dudes, chill,” Lenny said, standing in front of Vince.
Matt edged Jason toward the door. Tempers cooled, but nothing was done or said to resolve anything. Matt picked up the books and handed them to Jason.
“See you bro’,” Matt said. Jason nodded and left the room.
“Later, dude,” Lenny said. “Ball game this weekend.”
Vince said nothing and picked his magazine off the floor. Lenny suspected their classmates wondered how Vince did so well when he studied like this. The guy spent most of his time at the gym. His five-foot eleven-inch frame held his one hundred eighty-five pounds of muscle and bone. He threw the magazine at Lenny and sat up. “These ballgames are making you go broke.”
“I’m not going broke, you jerk. I gamble occasionally, but all my bets are covered. There’s nothing wrong with that. Like you never bet on anything in your life. You’re such a fricking hypocrite, Vince,” Lenny said, the tension in his voice pronounced.
“Kind of edgy there, aren’t you, scarecrow?”
“I’m not edgy . . . and don’t call me scarecrow! You asshole, you think you’re so damn superior to everyone else. Let’s see how damn well you do on this next test. We’ll see what a hot shot you are.”
Matt gathered his papers and books. “I think I’ll call it a night, too,” he said, frustrated with the tension in the room. He picked up his things and headed for the door. “And gentlemen, try not to kill each other.”
Lenny watched Matt walk out the door, then glanced at Vince, whose eyes drilled holes in him. Lenny ran his hands across his short-cut hair. Vince got up from the floor as Lenny left his computer and walked to the refrigerator. “Y-you want a beer?”
“What are you doing?” Vince ignored the question. “What was that all about? Who the hell do you think you are? I don’t give a damn about you and your drama, but you’d better watch what you say around people.”
Perspiration formed on his forehead and he shook. Vince scared him.
“I-I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I-I’m going through a rough spot. I’m a . . . a little pre-occupied with other things.”
“Well, you had better straighten out, mister. Don’t drag me in on your problems.”
“I’m a little short in the cash flow department.”
“Did you get the test?” Vince asked.
“Yeah, but I’m gonna need more this time.”
Vince’s brow furrowed. “How much is more?”
“Two thousand.”
* * *
CHAPTER 4
* * *
August 11, 1995
* * *
JASON OCCASIONALLY QUESTIONED his decision to come to Vance AFB. This morning was one of those times. He was scheduled to attend Columbus AFB a year ago, but after the incident in England, the Air Force delayed his training for a year. He asked for Vance AFB because it put him farther away from Baton Rouge and his ex-wife.
Originally named the Enid Army Flying School just prior to the Japanese bombing Pearl Harbor in 1941, the name changed to Enid AFB in 1948 with the creation of the United States Air Force. In 1949, it was renamed after Medal of Honor Winner Lieutenant Colonel Leon Robert Vance, Jr. The Oklahoma base was famous for its challenging crosswinds.
The wind blew a steady ten knots from the north at a quarter to five in the morning. It would increase to fifteen knots by noon, as the cool mid-seventy-degree temperature would be well into the nineties. Darkness enveloped the base and several olive-drab-clothed figures scurried from the dormitories to the squadron building. The five-hundred-yard walk to the flight line; a daily ritual for most students. The long brick structure sat between two hangars on the east side of the flight line; home to over one hundred instructor pilots and three times as many students.
Jason stepped out of his room and began the journey with his classmates. He wore the standard-issue flight suit with his polished boots. The brown flight pubs bag issued to all students was held snug in his left hand. Inside, he carried the Dash One technical manual for the T-37, local area procedures, flight checklists, jet maneuvers manual, and academic publications. A busy day lay ahead of him. His second simulator sortie was first period. Then, another class in aerodynamics, and Computer Based Training (CBT) modules. The diverse UPT schedule proved to be one of the biggest challenges.
Jason approached the rectangular-shaped building. All the flight instructors huddled close to the door, angry the building remained locked. Most of the students stood close, greeting the stragglers walking from the dorm. The building custodian unlocked the door as Jason walked up, and the instructors and students piled inside.
The Eighth Flying Training Squadron entrance led to a long hallway flanked by gray lockers, flight rooms, and offices on either side. The hallways were barren. A safety board, placed in the center of the building near the snack bar, displayed a variety of safety topics. The students gathered the publications they thought they might need for the morning brief. Placing the rest of their pubs in their lockers, they filed into the flight room.
The instructors didn’t waste any time in the hallway and gathered in the flight commander’s office. They normally arrived twenty minutes before the students to discuss training procedures and review the morning briefing. Days like today, they wouldn’t have enough time to cover everything they needed. In less than ten minutes, the briefing would start.
Flight rooms reflected the personalities of the instructor pilots. The front of the room consisted of a podium with a dry-erase board on the wall behind it. Walls were covered with pictures and plaques, and one wall had a three by four-foot painted image of the flight patch. On either side of the room, desks ran along the wall where the instructors and students sat. These desks were the most interesting sights in the building. The instructors competed against each other to create the coolest desk montage. Each was different, consisting of pictures of various airplanes, patches of different classes and operational units, and photographs of wives or girlfriends. In the back of the room, another board covered the wall with a huge desk in front. The flight schedulers worked here. Their task: to coordinate the students’ training, ensuring it was timely and consistent.
Jason sat at his instructor’s desk with his in-flight guide, checklist, and a small notebook, while some of his classmates prepare for the brief. Each one assigned a specific task to carry out before the briefing started. One gathered the daily operations notes. Another secured the weather briefing. Two more drew a small picture of the traffic pattern, depicting what the winds would do to the aircraft in the pattern and upon landing. As the SRO, Gus acted like a conductor, and monitored the other students in their morning tasks. The duty officer, also a student, sat by the door. He answered phones, filed papers, and did whatever else needed doing in the flight room.
About two minutes before five, all the instructors filtered out and headed toward their desks. Each instructor had two students assigned to him. As he reached his desk, his students stood, saluted, and began the morning ritual of questions and answers. Time was short today because everyone ran late. There would be no informal question-and-answer session before the briefing this morning. Jason was relieved. Dead tired from the night before, he didn’t feel up to a quiz.
Jason and Matt were both assigned to Captain Mike Rawlings. He seemed a nice enough guy. Most instructors tried to avoid being too much of a buddy. It tended to cloud their judgment in grading situations.
“Room tench-hut,” spouted the duty officer as the flight commander and his assistant entered the room. The flight commander, Captain Kevin Johnson, walked up to the podium and faced Gus McTaggart.
“Sir, all students present and accounted for
,” Gus said, saluting sharply.
Captain Johnson returned the salute. “Take your seats.” He glanced at the clock behind the scheduler’s desk, then at his watch. The short, trim flight commander had a deep tan, his brown hair showing traces of gray on the sides. “Forty seconds till one minute after,” he said for the time hack. Captain Johnson read the day’s operations notes, a daily information sheet for the squadron. He stopped for a ten-second countdown for a time hack of one minute after five.
Next, the flight safety officer discussed the safety topic of the day. After him, the flight standardization and evaluations officer (stan/eval) walked up front. He was the individual responsible for the quality of the training. The stan/eval officer was also known as the “black hat”, the “bad” guy. The students shifted uncomfortably in their seats. No one enjoyed this portion. He asked a series of questions, followed by an emergency procedure (EP) in the jet. A student would be given a scenario to talk through and solve. The idea is to be able to perform under pressure. If the student given the scenario applied the wrong procedures, he was graded unsatisfactory and sat down for the day to study.
Nothing could be more frightening than looking stupid in front of your classmates. Nobody wanted that. As the students sensed the question/answer period coming to an end, most tried to avoid eye contact.
Today was not Jason’s day. Given the EP of a catastrophic engine failure right at his go-no-go speed, he thought it was simple. “Go-no-go” is an airspeed calculated to determine at what point the jet can abort the takeoff and still stop on the runway.
Having defined the problem, Jason attempted to solve it, but his lack of sleep made it difficult to focus. Operating under the assumption he should take-off, Jason elected to do so. Any emergency occurring after this speed, in most cases, would be taken care of in the air after the aircraft safely climbed away from the ground. The instructor continued to question him about various other factors during his emergency, the situation appeared to get worse. After another two minutes, the instructor failed his other engine and told him to sit down. Jason knew what that meant. Life once again sucked.
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