Scareforce

by Charles Hough

  There was no one there. The hallway and, for that matter, the rest of the house was empty except for the Freemans. And the front door that he had heard open was still securely locked.

  After searching the house for the third time, Ted was sitting in the living room. He was holding his son, who had overcome the effects of the medicine and was crying as he had all day. At that moment two things happened at once. There was a knock on the front door. Ted jumped up, startled, and headed for the door. Then he stopped, amazed. For at the exact moment that the silence was broken by the knock, Teddy stopped crying. He looked into his father’s eyes and smiled. Then he closed his own eyes and fell fast asleep.

  Ted stumbled to the door in a daze. The visitor turned out to be his first sergeant, the senior administrator for his squadron. He was surprised to see Ted up at this hour, but the sight of the infant in his arms alleviated some of the surprise.

  “I’m sorry to have to bring you some bad news,” the sergeant said. “I thought it best to come in person. I didn’t want to tell you over the phone. I’m afraid your father-in-law passed away tonight.”

  Vikki gasped at the sad news. She was standing in the doorway to the living room, obviously wakened by the knock.

  The sergeant left after ascertaining that there was nothing further he could do to help. He told Ted to make arrangements through the squadron for an emergency leave when he was able to come in.

  Saddened by the loss of her father, Vikki was still shocked by the events of the previous night. The recounted story of the ghostly visitor was one thing, but the actions of their baby added immeasurably to the strangeness of the situation. It was almost as if the child had been mourning the impending death of his grandfather. And when it finally happened, he relaxed. It was as if Vikki’s father had visited to say that everything was all right and Teddy was the only one to receive the message.

  But the next day something even stranger occurred. It was something that removed all doubt, at least for the Freemans. Vikki was settling her son in his stroller to take advantage of the mild weather. She was in the hallway getting ready to go out the front door. As she straightened up she noticed a shadow on the wall behind the stroller. At first she thought it was her own shadow, but she glanced behind her to see that there was no light source to make the shadow. She looked back at the wall and watched the shadow turn so as to present a profile. The profile was immediately recognizable to her. It was definitely her father. She glanced down at her infant son and saw that he was smiling broadly at the shadow. She watched it and, as it gradually faded away, she was overcome with a feeling not of dread but of peace. She knew in her heart that her father had come to say good-bye. His ghost had crossed the ocean to assure her that it was all right.

  DEATH REACHES OUT

  THE following story is an example of how to hide in plain sight. The facts were right there in the headlines for all to see. But few civilians were able to read between the lines. It’s also true that few Air Force flyers were able to overlook the irony hidden in the facts. Everyone of us has watched comrades go down in flames and wondered “Why him? Why not me?” And the only answer is, “must not be my time… yet.”

  Predestination is a warrior’s creed. The belief that your time for leaving this earth and this life has already been decided is a powerful tool for one who must face death every day. History’s greatest warriors have held the belief and have prospered because of it. Stonewall Jackson knew that he could do nothing to avoid his death when it came for him. Battle held no. fear for him. He stood in the midst of shot and shell as though he were a stone wall. His courage inspired courage in his men.

  Patton also knew that he had nothing to fear from battle. He knew he could not escape fate and did not try. In the modern military the belief is not so universally held. In the age of modern warfare, of computer chip aircraft and intelligent munitions, it’s hard to believe in something as ancient as fate. But sometimes fate reaches out, through all the modern defenses and cybernetic soldiers, and once again its icy grip is felt.

  The B-52 Stratofortress and the KC-135 Stratotanker were the heart and soul of the Strategic Air Command. They were the backbone of the nuclear defense of the United States and were a major factor in the winning of our longest war: the cold war.

  To see these two giant aircraft engaged in the aerial ballet called midair refueling was truly awe-inspiring. Unfortunately, because it took place five to six miles straight up, it was a sight that few Americans were privileged to witness. The precise timing and almost superhuman control required to fly these behemoths of the air in connected flight, while hurtling through space at hundreds of miles per hour, was astounding.

  The powers in charge of the Strategic Air Command in 1983 knew this. They also know that if a way could be found to demonstrate this dangerous ballet to the public, it would boost the image of the men and women of SAC. For years audiences at military and civilian airfields had thrilled to the aerial demonstrations of teams of fighter aircraft like the Blue Angels and the Thunderbirds. They were in such demand that their shows were booked months and even years in advance. They never failed to draw a crowd. And the reverence that the American public held for the pilots carried over to the rest of the military personnel assigned to their bases and commands. The young men and women who worked long, difficult hours to keep them flying deserved recognition. It was great for morale and great for public relations.

  The SAC leaders knew all this and finally devised a plan to demonstrate the capabilities of their aircraft to the public. A “Thunder Bomber/Thunder Tanker” team was formed to demonstrate low-level air refueling. The team was comprised of the best bomber and tanker crews. They were given ample time and resources to develop a show-stopping display.

  Only integral crews were used and they practiced for endless hours to perfect the show. They did most of their work at the northwestern SAC base where the crews were permanently stationed. They worked slowly but deliberately to produce the desired results with maximum safety. They went over and over each separate part of their routine to achieve perfection. Every crew member knew he was an important part of the team. Each knew what to do and when to do it. The navigator teams on both aircraft coordinated to achieve split-second timing. The pilot teams practiced precise and minute control. Every move must be anticipated and perfected. The tanker crew had to know exactly what the bomber crew was going to do and vice versa. The gunner and boomer operator were responsible for keeping exact separation of the two aircraft. All the crew members learned to act like the fingers of one hand. The demonstration was going to be perfect. Then fate stepped in.

  On this day, the thirteenth day of the month, a series of maneuvers were to be rehearsed over the airfield. They were maneuvers that had been done before but that needed more polishing. The bomber was to flyby and then the tanker would do the same. After the simple flyby, both aircraft would move into position for a join-up and a pass of the viewing area in refueling formation. For the sake of realism a vacant lot that adjoined the runway at midfield was chosen to be the viewing area. It was easy to pick out from the air because it was the only vacant lot on the base side of the runway. It was flanked by the squadron building and an operations building and the far side formed the parking lot for the group of commercial shops known as the Base Exchange. The field was known to be a good place to watch the air show practice. A road that ran down the east side of the field was usually full of cars, but this day the road was almost empty.

  It was a normal busy workday for squadron personnel, but they were able to look up from their desks through the windows on the west end of the building for a clear view of the demonstration area. Mission-planning crews enjoyed watching the practice and critiquing the abilities of their fellow fliers. This form of friendly harassment was endured by the elite crews chosen for the demonstration teams. It kept them from getting too proud.

  On this particular day the crew study rooms were full of working airmen. But one of the watchers had noth
ing to do. Nothing that is except to fret and worry about his crew. He was the boom operator of the Thunder Tanker and should have been taxiing out to the runway. But the young sergeant was unable to be with them. He had come down with a cold and the Flight Surgeon, the flyers’ personal physician, had designated him DNIF, Duty-Not-Involving-Flying for the next couple of days. It was not his fault that he couldn’t be there with his crew. But he fretted just the same. He finally got in his car and drove out to the field to watch. He waved as the tanker with his crew and a substitute boomer taxied by for takeoff.

  As the sergeant sat in his car watching the two aircraft make multiple passes by the imaginary viewing stand he noticed a jogger on the road by the vacant lot. He recognized him as a pilot from his squadron and waved to him. Personal fitness was a must for the aviators and nearly everyone in the squadron engaged in jogging.

  The young boomer returned his attention to the aircraft floating above the field. Then at approximately one-thirteen, or thirteen-thirteen in military time, something happened.

  The mission planners in the squadron were slow to realize what was happening. One captain finally recognized that something was gravely wrong. The tanker was descending much too rapidly and sideslipping directly toward the squadron building. He finally broke his paralysis and yelled for the rest of the crews to run. They reacted immediately and scrambled for the far side of the building.

  The jogger on the road stopped to rest, glanced back at the runway, and suddenly found himself in an actual race. A race with death. For the tanker, a military version of the venerable Boeing 707, was coming directly at him. He ran faster and harder than he had ever run in his life.

  Workers in the operations building across the field from the squadron were mesmerized by the sight of the mighty tanker, so completely out of control and rolling lazily on its side. Panic spread as they became aware that the aircraft would certainly land on their building.

  People returning from shopping or just arriving to shop in the BX stopped in disbelieving silence as they watched the silver aircraft making directly for them. It was most assuredly out of control. Confusion was on every face. It was almost impossible to understand what was happening to the tanker. There was no immediate panic. Some even walked a few steps closer to the flight line to get a better look.

  Everyone who saw the aircraft in the final moments of flight knew that a crash, a horrible crash, was inevitable. And they also knew in some primitive part of their beings that more than the crew would die in the wreckage. There was only one small open area near the runway. Only the little field. There was simply no way that the tumbling, careening aircraft could miss hitting at least one building.

  Flying airplanes is an inherently dangerous business and flying military aircraft is the most dangerous of the dangerous. The Air Force is a closely knit family, drawn together by adversity. When something as terrible as an aircraft accident happens, a well-managed support system swings into action almost immediately. When a husband, wife, son, or daughter is struck down in the course of duty, word of that disaster must come from a fellow member of the military family. Friends of the crew members spread out to give the sorrowful news and be there to help manage the grief.

  The base knew almost immediately that a KC-135 had crashed. Every wife who had a husband and every child who had a father that flew tankers waited in dread to hear. Who had it been? Who bought the farm? Who wouldn’t be coming back tonight?

  The wife of the boom operator, the regular member of the crew, felt a deep sorrow for the families of the other crew members. They were like her family. But she also couldn’t help feeling a secret relief, knowing that her husband was safe. He had been saved by a little cold, such a minor thing to owe your life to.

  She prepared to go to the squadron to see what help she could offer the survivors, the families of the missing men. As she started to leave the building she was surprised to see a friend coming up her walk with the squadron operations officer and the base chaplain flanking her. She was a little amused. They must have made a mistake. Her husband hadn’t been on that aircraft. He was safe.

  The crash was horrendous, instantly transforming the jet into twisted rubble. The JP-4 fuel in the tanks, enough to keep the aircraft airborne for several hours, ignited immediately on impact. The sound was a deafening roar. The impact was truly astonishing. And the wreck was astonishing in another aspect. Because, as impossible as it seemed, the aircraft missed the squadron building. It missed the operations building. It missed the Base Exchange buildings. In fact it missed all of the buildings where all of the people were waiting as if trapped, waiting to die. The aircraft came to rest in the only clear area that could possibly hold such a horrible event. It hit squarely in the vacant field.

  The mission planners in the squadron were singed by the ball of flame and showered with glass from the exploding windows, but no one died. The workers in the operations building were pelted with burning debris, but no one died. The shoppers at the BX ran for cover. Their cars and forgotten packages suffered some, but no one died. Even the jogger on the road won his race with death. Its hot breath came so close that his neck was burned but he won. He didn’t die.

  What precipitated the event can be analyzed but will never be known for sure. For some reason, as the tanker was approaching the field, some range of control was lost. Many hours will be spent in simulators and at roundtable discussions trying to determine what caused the loss. At some point a decision will be made. But no one will ever know for sure what really happened aboard that aircraft. When the smoke cleared and the wreckage was sifted it was found that only one person on the ground met death with the ill-fated crew of the stratotanker. Of all the possible observers who might have died, only one was struck down. And soon it became known that that one was the most unbelievable of all.

  The man who died on the ground was the man who should have been on the aircraft that day. It was a young boom operator who was unable to be with them for the flight. It was his fate to die in the crash with his crew. Fate reached out; death reached out, to claim its own.

  THE GHOST OF CHARLIE FIFTY-FOUR

  GUAM was like a gift to me. Even in the face of war I felt I had escaped the snows of upstate New York for the white sand beaches and tropical breezes of this island paradise. But I found out that there are worse things than snow. It took quite a while to piece together all the facts of the following story and I’m not sure it’s all entirely accurate. You see, I didn’t meet Lieutenant Sommers until after his first flight from Guam.

  The island of Guam is the most western part of the United States. An American territory since 1950, it lies on the far side of the international date line. Guamanians are American citizens and, as such, think of Guam as “where America’s day begins.”

  The biggest island of the Marianas chain, Guam is still a tiny Pacific island. Thirty miles long from north to south, it is only four miles wide at its narrowest point.

  Small as it is, during the Vietnam War Guam became host to one of the biggest buildups of aircraft and airmen ever seen. The Pacific headquarters of the Strategic Air Command since 1954, Andersen Air Base on the northeastern tip of the island became one of the biggest bomber bases ever constructed. At the high point of US involvement in the Vietnam War over 150 B-52s, the world’s biggest bombers, were stationed at Guam. So much metal was piled on the end of the island, so many aircraft, munitions, and support equipment, that it was a commonly held belief that one more plane would cause the island to tip over into the sea. It was mentioned only partially in jest.

  With the advent of “Operation Bullet Shot” in 1972 the activity on Guam intensified. The biggest maintenance force ever assembled at one base worked impossible hours to ensure that the giant aircraft turned and flew constantly. Crews, used to flying two sorties a month, were flying two to three times a week. Weapon loaders were loading more bombs each day than some bases had ever seen. The airfield was a maze of activity barely controlled by a maintenance staff ens
conced in a tower at the south end of the field. It was joked that there were more aircraft on Andersen than there were parking spaces. Some bombers had to be taxied constantly, like a New York car looking for an open spot by the curb.

  The crews of the giant bombers found life as hurried as the rest of the personnel. Normal stateside operations called for a full day of mission planning, three to four hours of preflight, and at least two days of recovery after the mission. Here in-country, the operation was squeezed into a few hours to prepare and then a rushed entry into the aircraft and a sudden launch in a wave of aircraft. Ironically, crews found that the only place to relax was in the air. Sorties from Guam to Vietnam took over eighteen hours. It was thought of as eighteen hours of boredom broken up by a few minutes of sheer panic.

  Into the midst of this chaotic dance was thrust a young man, a first lieutenant named Justin O. Sommers. He was the proverbial wet-behind-the-ears lieutenant, his silver bars as new as his navigator wings.

  The normal order of integration for a new navigator in the Strategic Air Command was much more relaxed. The new nav usually finished Combat Crew Training School, where he was introduced to the venerable B-52. He then cleaned up various required units like water and land survival schools, and reported to an operational unit for more training. His first flight at his unit was called a dollar ride and usually involved no more than a ride to watch how a fully trained crew operated. He was then given several flights with his crew to learn his job and, finally, he was evaluated by his friendly neighborhood Standardization Board instructor to see if he could do the job.

  For Justin Sommers there was no gentle breaking-in period. He had been hustled through a succession of accelerated courses with all the time to breathe taken out. Instead of leaving Castle Air Force Base at this point for his permanent base, he was shifted down the road to the Replacement Training Unit. The purpose of this unit was to turn the young nav into a steely-eyed killer capable of navigating the D model of the B-52. The D model had been given the “big belly” modification to allow it to carry over a hundred bombs and was fast becoming the workhorse of the Vietnam war.