by Dale Brown
Colonel Greg McGwire, the Operations Group commander, in charge of all the aircraft and aircrews at Plattsburgh, shook his head and leaned back in his seat. “General, with all due respect, how in the hell am I supposed to do that?” he asked in total exasperation. “I’m just starting Hell Week. Everyone is scheduled to fly, including you and me and most of the staff. I’ve already asked my squadron commanders and some of the flight commanders to work six extra unpaid days a month just to keep up with the paperwork—they don’t have the time to do anything else but train during Hell Week.”
“Greg, the request from STRATCOM was not optional or negotiable,” Cole said.
“STRATCOM puts us through this just to know if we’re ready to fight?” McGwire asked irritably. “General, we demonstrate our mobility capability, our operational flexibility, and our warfighting skills every day. Send the bean-counters out here and we’ll show them!”
“Enough, Colonel,” Cole interrupted, lighting up an expensive cigar. “You’ll have your opportunity to show General Layton how good your folks are. After all, he’s arriving to inspect the Bravo exercise in about an hour.” McGwire rolled his eyes wearily, wearing a pained expression as if his back had just broken under the last straw. Cole continued. “I want to see those preliminary reports on my desk by eighteen hundred hours—that’ll give us time to clean them up before we transmit them. Get your staffs and your squadron commanders together and get those reports in.
“And just to make matters worse,” Cole concluded, taking a big puff of the cigar, “the Reserve training week will continue as planned, and the warning order is not to be discussed outside this office. If necessary, you can tell your staffs that the preliminary readiness report was ordered by Fifth Air Battle Force, period—further explanation is not necessary and not permitted. Questions?”
No response—everyone was eager to get out of there so they could open the regs and start cranking out the paperwork.
“That is all.”
The group commanders bolted for the door. Only two men remained: Colonel James Lafferty, the vice commander of the Air Battle Wing, and the Wing’s newest group commander, Daren Mace. “Have a seat, Colonel Mace—it’ll probably be the last bit of rest you get in quite a while,” Lafferty said. Lieutenant Colonel Daren Mace took his seat at the battle staff conference table. Lafferty went over to ask the clerk for coffee, and General Cole used that distraction to get a first look at his newest Wing staff officer. He studied him, in between drags on his cigar.
Frankly, Cole thought, he certainly looked like he could cut the mustard. Well-built, obviously in shape, perfect grooming, alert green eyes. Somewhere in the back of Cole’s mind, the image of Daren Mace seemed familiar … like one of those faces on television, or that blond guy in the movies his wife always swooned over. The Condor guy. Redfern, or something like that. Cole nodded to himself, savoring the cigar. Yeah, that was it. He looked like that guy in the movies.
He also, Cole thought, looked a helluva lot more like some hot-shit pilot than an Aircraft Maintenance Group commander. Sure, Maintenance was the toughest job on the base, bar none—in charge of three friggin’ squadrons and over two thousand men and women, working round-the-clock every day of the year. Tough as hell. No wonder they had the largest percentage of disciplinary actions, AWOLS, personnel turnover, and job dissatisfaction of any group on base. But as Cole himself knew, it was also the most vital position on base, save for that of the wing commander himself, though it was usually occupied by a full colonel. Mace would have to really hump to stay on top of this job.
“Welcome to the 394th Air Battle Wing, Colonel Mace,” Cole finally said as Lafferty closed the door to the battle staff conference room. “We seem to have brought you on board right in the middle of a hornet’s nest, I’m afraid.”
Mace shrugged casually and said, “Bravo exercises are important, sir. It’ll give me a good opportunity to see the unit at work. And I’m accustomed to working in the midst of an alert as well. Old home week for me.”
Mace’s last assignment before this one had been as the senior weapons and tactics training officer of the Thirty-seventh Tactical Group at Incirlik Air Base in Turkey, training NATO crewdogs how to fight together as teams. That was back in ’93 and ’94. The group commander, Colonel Wes Hardin, had said Mace had done a helluva job, running circles around others Hardin had had in that position. The fact that he probably knew more than anyone else in the country of the F-111 weapon system didn’t hurt either.
“I’m uh, sorry that Colonel Lambford couldn’t be here to help you with the transition, but he, uh … well…” Cole was nervously rolling his cigar, clearly uncomfortable taking about it. Lafferty and McGwire were doing all they could to suppress smiles, knowing the reason for Cole’s discomfort: everyone, including Mace, was aware that Lambford, the old MG (Maintenance Group Commander), had been kicked out of the unit and discharged for calling his squadron commanders’ wives while their husbands were on duty, trying to engage them in phone sex. When the commanders found out, they kicked him out so fast he landed right in a psychiatric hospital somewhere. Lafferty and McGwire joked that he was probably playing with himself in some rubber room, trying to figure out what went wrong.
“… well,” Cole continued, “I just want to assure you that you’ll get all the help you need from Colonel Lafferty here, Colonel McGwire, and, of course, myself.”
Mace said, “Thank you, sir. Colonel Lafferty, in fact, has already been very helpful in working on my relocation, so I don’t think the transition will be too bad.” Mace watched calmly as Lafferty’s eyes clouded in confusion, not sure whether Mace was setting him up or not. As they both knew, Lafferty, instead of really being helpful, had tried to pass off the new arrival’s sponsorship duties to his staff, and the staff dropped the ball. Nobody in the room, or Lafferty’s staff, knew where Mace was living; if he had a family or what any of his needs were. Nothing. Which was fine with Mace.
“Where are you coming from, Daren?” Cole asked.
“Air Command and Staff College, in residence, just after getting RIFed and getting my Reserve commission,” Mace replied. “Before that, I was the deputy commander of maintenance for the 7440th Provisional Wing at Incirlik, primarily in charge of the bomber maintenance departments.”
“You were assigned to Incirlik after Desert Storm ended? For Operation Provide Comfort?” Cole asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, sir. I was there for the Islamic War, too.”
Operation Provide Comfort, the American air blockade of northern Iraq, was at first passed off as nothing more than a public relations effort by the Bush administration—no one knew that the 7440th Provisional Wing had single-handedly kept the Persian Gulf War from reigniting several times. Jordan, Syria, and Iraq had tried to break the blockade, singly and collectively, and were pushed back by the 7440th’s F-15E and F-111 fighter-bombers, and by Turkish F-16s. Overseeing the maintenance for that unit must have been a true nightmare.
Cole noticed Mace’s unpolished silver command navigator’s wings on his uniform and asked, “Did you fly in Desert Storm?”
Mace hesitated for a moment, then smiled before replying, “Yes, sir.”
“I know you were assigned to the 337th Test Squadron at McClellan just before Desert Storm, and an FB-111 squadron before that,” Cole said. “Were you involved with the testing for the five-thousand-pound GBU-28 ‘bunker buster’ bomb? That was an incredible development project.”
“I can’t really discuss my role in Desert Storm, sir,” Mace interjected. That denial confirmed Cole’s suspicions. “Besides, it was a time I’d just as soon forget.”
“It was a great victory, Colonel,” Lafferty said, pleased that Mace hadn’t hung him out to dry in front of Cole, now kissing his ass. “We should all be proud of it.”
“I think the victory we won was not the victory we wanted, sir,” Mace said.
“You mean we should have gotten that bastard Saddam Hussein once and for all,�
�� Lafferty said. “I agree.” Mace was about to open his mouth—to agree, to disagree, to argue, to curse, Cole couldn’t tell—but he merely nodded and said nothing.
“Well, we’re damned glad to have you aboard, Colonel,” Cole said with satisfaction. “It’s good to see you came early to in-process, because we need you out on the line today to kick off the Bravo exercise. And you’ll need to give a briefing for General Layton later on today.” Mace smiled a bit when he heard the name. “You know the General?” asked Cole.
“We’ve spoken,” Mace replied, that same small smile on his face, being careful not to mention that Layton and that ass Army boss Eyers had once ordered him to launch a nuclear missile during Desert Storm that would have killed thousands of people and wiped out half of ancient Babylon in the process—and whacked him for not doing it, then praised him for not doing it. “We’ve not kept in touch, though. I didn’t know he was Fifth Air Battle Force commander until he recommended me for the MG position here.”
“You might have a chance to get reacquainted,” Cole said. “I hate to have you give a dog and pony show on your first day in the harness, Colonel, but we’ll give you all the help you need—just let us know. I understand you’ll be flying with the squadrons once or twice a month—excellent. I think all the MGs should get some flying time—Lambford never cared to fly. You can’t command a maintenance group from your office.”
“I agree one hundred percent, sir,” Mace replied.
“Excellent.” Cole opened a drawer and handed Daren Mace a small foldup cellular phone, spare batteries, a laminated card with phone numbers of the other wing staff officers on it, and car keys with a white plastic Ident-O-Plate vehicle service card attached to the key ring. “Tools of the trade for the MG, Colonel. Your car is outside, gassed up and ready to go. I hope you have utility uniforms handy, then, Daren, because your first task is to grease up eight Vampires for deployment in about twelve hours.”
“I’ll be changed before I leave headquarters, sir. I want to meet with my staff as soon as possible.”
“It’s only six A.M., Colonel.”
“They’ve been waiting since five-thirty, sir,” Mace replied. “I called them in when I got the call from you.”
Cole blinked his surprise, then looked at Lafferty. “Good. Very good. I’ll let you get to it, then.” They shook hands all around, and Mace saluted and departed the battle staff room.
“What do you think, Jim?” Cole asked, stubbing out the last of his cigar after the newcomer had left.
“Not bad. Maybe a bit too officious,” Lafferty said. “But as long as he’s got what it takes.”
“General Layton installed him in the slot himself. Vouched for him personally,” Cole said, rising out of his chair. “Air Combat Command didn’t bat an eye. He must be hot stuff.”
“Right. But how come we can’t find out what he did in Turkey or in Desert Storm?” Lafferty asked. “Pretty strange, if you ask me.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Cole decided. “He may be Layton’s fair-haired boy then, but he’s in Plattsburgh now. This job has a way of bringing out the worst in a man, and his honeymoon ended about five minutes ago. Let’s just hope he doesn’t end up in a rubber room like Lambford. Jesus.”
The standard Air Force dark-blue station wagon was hubcap deep in snow, and Mace had to brush four inches of snow off the windows and put tire chains on it himself—as if by magic, no one came out of the front door of the headquarters building for the entire time he was working on the car to help him out. Thankfully, the car started on the second try, and he headed for the flight line.
If the sorry status of his vehicle was any indication of the status of the entire Maintenance Group, Mace grimly thought, he was in for a very long tour of duty. If the group couldn’t take care of one lousy car, how could they take care of a billion dollars’ worth of war machines?
For a few stirring moments he forgot about the bone-chilling cold and looked over the aircraft parked on the ramp—his aircraft, until the aircrews signed for them, he reminded himself—especially the sleek, deadly RF-111G Vampire reconnaissance/strike aircraft. Man, what a beauty.
They had once been FB-111A strategic nuclear bombers, back when Daren Mace flew them not too long ago. Everyone said now that the Cold War was dead the world no longer needed nuclear bombers. Sure. That little presumption could end any day now, thanks to the conflict raging in Europe. The military had taken the supersonic FB-111 and given it a photo, radar, and electronic reconnaissance capability. Their top speed was Mach-two, over twice the speed of sound, and with terrain-following radar and advanced avionics, the RF-111G Vampire was one of the world’s greatest combat aircraft, even after almost thirty years of service. Of course, this version still retained its strike capability, including laser-guided bombs, antiship missiles, TV-guided bombs and missiles, antiradar missiles, and thermonuclear bombs and missiles.…
… Like the AGM-131X missile he had almost launched during the opening hours of Desert Storm.…
He shuddered even thinking about that day. Besides its being the most harrowing day of his life—flying that Aardvark through Indian country with nothing more than glue holding it together—it also ended on the worst possible note. After almost killing himself to save the camp and his pilot, to then be called a … traitor.…
All for not launching a nuke that he wasn’t supposed to launch anyway.
Both he and Parsons survived the crash fairly well, and the two nuclear-tipped missiles were recovered intact, but while Parsons was recovering from his wounds in a hospital, Mace was confined to an empty barracks at Batman Air Base in Turkey, where he was interrogated for three weeks straight. The interrogation took an inordinate amount of time while Washington and the brass played political football, scratching their heads trying to figure out what to do, while covering their fat asses at the same time. As Mace was entering his fourth week in isolation, somebody with balls at the Pentagon and in the Air Force finally decided what had happened wasn’t that bad. That perhaps Mace had done the world a favor by not cooking off the nuke, that the war was going to be won anyway … so without another word he was released and returned to his unit.
But word got around. How could it not, being stuck in isolation for almost four weeks? Speculation and whispering was passed from one serviceman to another … something had happened out over the desert. Something Mace had done that resulted in the injuries sustained by his squadron commander, the destruction of an expensive aircraft, and the failure of a mission … all because of him.
“A flake …”
“Coward …”
“Screwball …”
He had heard them all whispered at some point or another, but the most damaging, the most gut-wrenching of all, was the word Parsons himself had muttered: “Traitor.”
As the buzz and speculation continued on base regarding Mace’s conduct on that mission, he found himself effectively ostracized from the Air Force flying community. He was taken off flying status for several months until being reassigned into a maintenance officer’s role in Incirlik, Turkey, and, to his surprise, he found he enjoyed the challenges of keeping dozens of high-tech war machines in the air seven days a week as much as he had being a radar navigator.
Even after he was removed from the Air Force during the Reduction in Forces cutbacks and then given a Reserve commission, Mace knew he wanted back into maintenance. He was still entitled to fly, and he did so to retain his flight pay, but he no longer wanted to kill for his country … at least not directly. Instead, he wanted to care for the machine that saved his life that morning.
That was the mark Operation Desert Fire had left on Daren Mace, and though he loved the maintenance work, caring for those planes, his personal life never seemed as orderly as his military one. While he was based in Turkey, he found the more he came into contact with people, the less he wanted to be around them, as if somehow they too knew what had happened in his other life and would question him, hold it against him. Wait a
nd watch for him to screw up again. He knew it was ridiculous, even a bit paranoid, but at least Mace had the strength of introspection to recognize these feelings for what they were—emotional baggage. And yet he decided to live with it until it subsided. During that time, even contact with his family was limited. His romantic life in Turkey was nonexistent. Daren would see someone for a few dates, and then when they learned what kind of job he had, the women would wax about the romanticism of it all, the power of being in a big cockpit, of having that stick right there, controlling everything … and then they’d try to get him to tell war stories, make the fantasy even more romantic.
And Daren Mace would cool down. Withdraw, close up. It usually ended up being the last date with the woman in question once she started getting all hot and bothered by his uniform. He frankly didn’t see the point. It was his uniform that had put him in the situation he was in there in Incirlik. Being hammered for something he correctly judged not to do.
The price for Desert Fire had been high for him, but over time, he began to feel he had paid down his debt. He had given the Air Force what they wanted—exile in a shithole base. And he had given himself time to do what he needed—recover. But, stuck there, he’d done the best damned job of his life. Not for them, but for himself. And so, when his group commander, Colonel Wes Hardin, had told him in Incirlik that the Air Reserve Personnel Center in Robins, Georgia, had called and said to him that now-Lieutenant General Layton wanted him to become the maintenance group commander for an RF-111G wing, his old FB-111 Aardvark, he jumped at the chance. He had a love for that plane like no other. It meant going back to the beautiful Northeast, back to changing seasons, back to peace and quiet. As an Enhanced Reserve Program member, he would have steady work and good pay and still lots of time to be by himself. He went to Plattsburgh several weeks early, found a part-time job cleaning and servicing beer and drink taps for local area bars and restaurants—Plattsburgh has more bars per square city block than any city in America. He moved into an efficiency apartment downtown, and found himself ready, even excited, to get started as the new MG when he heard the early-morning roar of F-111s taking off. After a lot of downtime, he was glad to be back in the traces.
