Chains of Command
Page 17
“All of which has added up to zero, Uncle Stuart,” Rebecca interjected.
“It may seem that way, Rebecca, but remember the Northeast still is in the grips of a recession—whether it is real or contrived, it is perceived as real and it is affecting businesses everywhere. Perhaps a change of perspective would do some good.”
“But I’m not looking for a regular job, Uncle Stu,” Rebecca replied with determination. “I’m a pilot. I’ve been a pilot for over ten years.”
“And you were one of the best,” the Senator concluded. “But times are tough now. Competition for women in male-dominated jobs everywhere was always tough, and I don’t foresee it ever getting any easier.”
“I’ll put my record against anyone else’s,” Rebecca fired back. “But I’m getting aced out by low-time rookies. I’m losing jobs to guys that have no jet time, even zero turbine time. I’m losing out to guys with fresh commercial tickets! Look, I’m a flyer. I enjoy military flying. I know the President is trying to increase the size of the Reserve forces and draw down the active-duty forces, but I just can’t seem to find a unit to take me.”
“Where have you looked?”
“I’ve applied to every Guard and Reserve unit in the country, Uncle Stu,” she said. “I’m on waiting lists in eight units. But I put myself on a mobilization augmentee list in New York so I can get a little better position on the waiting list for an assignment in Plattsburgh, Rome, or Niagara Falls, but that freezes me off the lists in other states.” She looked at her uncle carefully, then lowered her voice respectfully and said, “Uncle Stuart, you’re on the Senate Armed Services Committee, and you’re on the select panel dealing with this new administration’s push for an expanded Reserve force. Can’t you help me break through some of this red tape?”
He ignored her question at first, staying deep in thought about something else. Rebecca was afraid she had overstepped her family bounds by asking for a favor, but what the hell, what were relatives for?
“Why New York? If you want my help, why aren’t you signing up for augmentee slots in Vermont? I’m a senator in Vermont, Rebecca.”
“I love Vermont—you know that,” Rebecca said, “but they have only one military unit, the fighter group in Burlington, and I’ve read that it may be disbanded or moved. New York has more units. I even heard they want to start a Reserve RF-111G bomber unit in Plattsburgh too.”
Stuart Furness looked surprised. “You heard that, did you?”
“It was just a rumor,” Rebecca admitted. “The Air Force was considering a Reserve composite wing, similar to the active-duty wings, where each base has its own mini-air force—fighters, bombers, tankers, transports, all that stuff.”
“You seem to be very well informed.”
“Unemployed people have a lot of time to read the papers, Uncle Stu.” She paused, scanning her uncle’s distant, thoughtful expression for a moment, then: “What is it, Uncle Stu? You heard something about the new wing in Plattsburgh? They’re really going to do it? An all-Reserve composite air battle wing?”
“Yes,” he finally said, speaking to her but still lost in thought. “New York State has approved the expansion of the base for up to eight thousand military and civilian personnel, and expanded flight operations. They want to move a squadron of F-16 fighters, KC-135 tankers, and your RF-111 reconnaissance planes there.”
“They are? That’s great!” Rebecca crowed. “Can you get me an appointment to meet the new commander? Uncle Stu, I would be forever grateful. I’d really make you proud of me.” She paused as she noticed that lost, faraway stare again. “You can’t recommend me for a slot? Because I’m not a Vermont resident?” No reaction. “Because I’m a woman? Is that it?”
“No, that’s not it … well, in a way, it is,” Senator Furness stumbled. “There are a few provisions of the bill that I don’t like. First, they want to take the 158th Interceptor Group out of Burlington and move them to Plattsburgh to form the new air battle wing.”
“I’m sure you can work out something.”
“I don’t want to just give it away, Rebecca,” Stuart Furness said. “Having a military base in your home state that another state wants has real value.”
“Can’t they just take it? Can’t the Pentagon just order it moved?”
“They can, and they have tried,” Senator Furness said. “But although we have a Democrat in the White House and a Democratically controlled Congress, we Republicans in the Senate can still shake things up a bit. They want the 158th—and they want a lot more, too. So they’re going to have to pay for it.”
“What other things do they want?”
“The big one, Rebecca. The Great Experiment. Women in combat. They want to start putting women in some combat positions this year.”
“You’re kidding! They’re really going to do it?”
“The President made a promise during his State of the Union address, and it looks like he’s going to keep it.” Senator Furness sighed. “A draft resolution has been in the works for years, but it’s never made it out of committee. The Senate sent it to committee last week. My committee.” He stood, walked to the front of his desk, and sat on a corner to be closer to his niece. “I’m opposed to the measure.”
“You are?”
“I think women have no business in the military, period, to be perfectly honest,” her uncle said. “But women in combat, I feel, would be a great mistake. But be that as it may, the House and the President have decided that women should be allowed into certain combat specialties. Top of the list will be Air Force female combat pilots.” He paused, studying his niece. She wore an excited expression with a hint of a smile. “Your thoughts, Rebecca?”
“I think it’s about time,” Rebecca replied quickly. “I think it’s a good idea.”
“Even with certain … extraordinary conditions?”
“What sort of conditions?”
The Senator ticked off the ideas one by one on his fingers, watching his niece carefully for her reactions. “One, they must be experienced—no UPT graduates or FAIPs—First-Assignment Instructor Pilots. Captain or higher, aircraft commander, with at least two thousand hours’ total time as pilot in command.”
“Nothing extraordinary about that,” Rebecca said.
“I’m not finished, my dear. Two—and it’s the big one—mandatory, flight-surgeon-supervised, long-term contraception or voluntary sterilization.”
“What?” Rebecca retorted. “Sterilization? Why?”
“Two reasons. One, pregnant women who strap on a G-suit, climb around fuel and hydraulic fluid, and start pulling lots of Gs can harm a fetus, and I would hate to see that. Children, even unborn children, mean everything to me, and I will not pass a law that could knowingly harm an innocent child.
“Secondly, a woman captured during wartime will get raped by her captors,” the Senator continued. “No nation locked in war, even those who hold human rights dear, as we do, can guarantee that women captured in combat will not be raped. Obviously the woman can’t be concerned with oral contraceptives, because she won’t have them after captivity, so the contraceptive method would have to be long-term and unobtrusive, like Norplants or sterilization.”
“Norplants?”
“Subcutaneous implants that meter hormones into the body. It lasts for two to three years. You’ve heard about ’em.”
“I should think women would consider that a violation of their rights or something.”
“Many will. But women need to make a choice—combat or children. If you want the gift of being able to carry a child, you can’t go off to fight. If you want the right to bear arms to defend your country, you should be willing to accept the responsibility of not exposing an unborn human being to such danger.”
Rebecca Furness was watching her uncle in stunned silence—she found herself nodding in agreement. “Actually, it… you know, Uncle Stuart, it makes sense to me as well. But are you proposing that women who fly in combat can’t have children at all?”
“No way,” Rebecca replied. “The unit would need to find a replacement, then find another slot for her when she returns. It would mean one extra crewmember for every woman in your unit.”
“Which would not be acceptable in this day and age of cost-cutting,” the Senator said.
“This is getting pretty complicated.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Senator Furness said. “The public thinks it is an easy call—simply let women do everything men can do.”
“It seems to me that if a woman can pass the same qualification standards that exist right now in those other specialties, she should be allowed to serve,” Rebecca said. “But don’t exclude women just because they’re women—exclude them because they’re not right for the job.”
Senator Furness looked off for a moment, lost in thought once again; then: “Now I have a serious topic for discussion, Rebecca, and it has to do with you. Tell me about the morning of January 17, 1991, Rebecca.”
Rebecca opened her mouth to say something, then closed it in surprise. “I know it’s classified, Rebecca,” the Senator added. He opened a drawer, showed her a red-covered folder with Top Secret/NOFORN marked on it, flipped it open to a page marked by a paper clip, and put his finger on a specific paragraph. It was a short profile on one Captain Rebecca Cynthia Furness, U.S. Air Force, situated within the text of a detailed report on the incident with the FB-111 bomber over Iraq during Desert Storm. “I know their side of the story. Tell me yours.”
She did, in short descriptive sentences and making no apologies. After another short pause she asked, “Is that the reason why I can’t get a job? Why no Reserve or Guard unit will hire me?”
“Partly so,” Senator Furness said. “But it is also one of the most stirring stories I’ve heard about the Gulf War. It is the story of a true combat hero. Had you not done what you did that morning, the entire complexion of the war could have changed in a matter of hours. The Coalition could have lost the war, and Saudi Arabia and Israel could be in the hands of the Iraqis right now.”
“I don’t understand. Why? What was that FB-111 doing?” And then she stopped. She suddenly understood.
“I can’t get into it with you, Rebecca,” Senator Furness said uneasily. “Most commanders below four-star rank don’t know the particulars either, so they just assume you screwed up very badly and they don’t want to have you in their organization, period. I saw this happening, but I could do nothing to help you—until now.
“I’m going to see how badly they want women in combat, Rebecca. I’m going to use you as a guinea pig. If you want the challenge, if you think you can stand the heat, I’m going to do it.”
“Do what?”
“Rebecca, I’m going to make you the first woman combat pilot in the United States Air Force,” Senator Furness said proudly. “Not only that, but I’m going to put you in command of a hot new weapon system, the RF-111 strike/reconnaissance plane, at Plattsburgh Air Force Base. It’ll be a Reserve assignment, and it won’t be a brand-new F-15E or F-22 fighter, but you will be the first American woman to fly in combat. How does that sound?”
Well, it had sounded great, of course. The Women in Combat law was passed, allowing women to apply and compete for all combat specialties, in all branches of service. Women could even compete for elite combat units, such as the Navy SEALS or Army Special Forces, although it was acknowledged by all that few if any women could hope to pass the rigorous physical requirements of those jobs.
Like the Mercury astronauts in the sixties, the first women combat soldiers in each branch of service were chosen, and they were put on display for the whole world to see, one from each of the Air Force, Army, Navy, and Marine Corps. Not all were pilots, and not all services were anxious to have women combat crewmembers, which reflected in their initial assignments. Rebecca Furness got the best of the lot as aircraft commander of a new Reserve RF-111; the Marine Corps woman pilot got a CH-53 Super Sea Stallion transport helicopter, operating in a combat training battalion at Twentynine Palms Marine Corps Depot in California; the Navy copilot received a Navy Reserve P-3 Orion submarine chaser based in Brunswick, Maine; and the woman Army warrant officer, the first noncommissioned female crewmember in the United States, became a crew chief/gunner in a Washington Air National Guard AH-IT Super Cobra gunship. Their training progress was given extensive media coverage—even down to photographers and news crews waiting outside the clinic to interview Rebecca after her Norplant contraceptives had been inserted.
Despite life in a media fishbowl, Furness scored near the top of her RF-111 Fighter Lead-in class in almost every aspect—bombing, gunnery, precision course control, and emergency procedures—and scored impressively well in physical training tests. Her arrival at Plattsburgh Air Force Base coincided with the standup ceremonies for the new 394th Air Battle Wing (AF Res), the first Reserve composite combat air wing, and the dedication of the new RF-111, nicknamed the Vampire.
Nearly a thousand women were now flying combat aircraft in the Air Force, and almost every month brought news stories of yet another traditional male-dominated job being taken by a woman. Although it was very routine work for her now, Rebecca Furness still enjoyed a bit of celebrity status because of her rapid rise in authority within the unit.
She became a flight commander just a few months ago, and because of her rank and skill, she was in line to become “A” Flight commander and operations officer in another year and then compete for an Air Command and Staff College slot. Her goal: to be squadron commander within five years, go to Air War College, and to become bomber/recce group commander within ten years.
And she was determined to do it.
THIRTEEN
394th Air Battle Wing (Reserve) Headquarters Command Center Plattsburgh Air Force Base, New York That Same Time
“In summary, the situation in Europe has gotten much worse,” Major Thomas Pierce, the 394th Air Battle Wing chief of intelligence said to the dozen persons seated before him in the tiny wing command post at Plattsburgh Air Force Base. “As I stated in my intelligence summary sheet, the Pentagon feels a state of war definitely exists between Russia, the Ukraine, Moldova, and Romania over the Dniester Republic, especially given the unpredictability—and presumed unstable mental state—of Russian President Velichko. Another air invasion can be expected at any time. What effect this will have on continental U.S. units, particularly ours, is hard to guess, knowing the current administration’s unwillingness to commit to combat. However, we should expect some action fairly soon. Any more questions?” There were none, so Pierce, a somewhat nerdy but studious forty-year-old, took his seat.
Brigadier General Martin Cole, the old war-horse commander of the 394th Air Battle Wing, was silent for a long moment after Pierce sat down. The atmosphere in the tiny room next to the Wing communications center was quiet and reserved, yet charged with dreaded electricity.
Cole was a twenty-six-year veteran of the United States Air Force and the Air Force Reserve, after serving in a wide variety of positions from duty officer of a radar post in the Aleutians to assistant to the Chief of Staff of the Air Force, and this was his first Reserve combat command. After a year on the job, he was faced with one of the biggest challenges of his long career. He was going on fifty years, and his black hair was thinning, so he kept it cut in a flattop.
“Thank you, Major.” Cole sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose to relieve a bit of the tension he was feeling. “I think that clearly explains the gravity of the warning order issued by Strategic Command at Offutt this morning.” It was only about six A.M., but they had all been up for the past two hours when a warning order message from United States Strategic Command, Offutt Air Force B
ase, Omaha, Nebraska, came in. Strategic Command, formerly the Strategic Air Command, was a joint services command that managed America’s nuclear arsenal. Unlike the early days, when SAC controlled all the land-based intercontinental nuclear-armed bombers and missiles, Strategic Command, or STRATCOM, had no aircraft or weapons, only plans and target lists—until war was imminent. Then Strategic Command could “gain,” or take control of, any weapon system it required to carry out the plans and missions as directed by the President of the United States.
That time was coming.
“Strategic Command headquarters has advised me that the possibility exists that within the next seventy-two hours all aircraft of the Fifth Air Battle Force, including our units, may be placed on DEFCON Level Four, or higher, for the first time since 1991,” Cole said solemnly. “Within three days, we could be back to pulling nuclear alert once again.” DEFCONs were Defense Configurations, with DEFCON Five being peacetime and DEFCON One being all-out nuclear war.
There was a murmur of voices through the room, and eyes all around the semicircular table showed both surprise and grave concern. All throughout the Cold War, in order to prove to America’s enemies that the country could not be defeated in a surprise attack, American strategic nuclear forces stood on round-the-clock alert. The level of those alert duties changed with world tensions, from peacetime to all-out war.
In 1991, when President George Bush removed all but some nuclear-powered sea-launched ballistic-missile submarines from strategic nuclear alert, the forces stood at DEFCON Five for the first time in over thirty years. They remained that way ever since—until now.
“The warning order,” Cole continued, “directs no specific DEFCON or posture for any of the forces, according to STRATCOM regulations. However, it does direct the commanders to evaluate the readiness of his forces and to report his overall readiness state to the Commander in Chief when so directed. Air Combat Command regulations spell out the nature of that readiness review, and that is the regulation we’ll follow. I need every group commander to go over those ACC regulations. You’ll find they direct a preliminary readiness review report within twelve hours, and a full report with all squadron commanders within twenty-four hours. I make my report to Air Battle Force headquarters six hours later, and the full report goes to Strategic Command, the Pentagon, and the White House within forty-eight hours.”