by T I WADE
She enjoyed flying most of the aircraft, but she learned that the bigger the aircraft, the more stable it flew; the C-5 was so big, and so powerful that in her first few years flying it as a co-pilot, she often headed into the cargo section to make her mind believe that she, little Maggie Sinclair, was hauling 250 tons of cargo around the world, in an aircraft as easy to fly as her first few days with her instructor in the Cessna.
Her degree in aerospace engineering was helpful in her promotions, and when she not flying, Maggie headed the aircraft maintenance “think tank” group on flight failures at her current base, Travis Air Force base in Fairfield, California.
In the mid-90s, Major Maggie Sinclair was ordered to help out on a C-5 experimental aircraft, where a large loading ramp had replaced the two clam-like opening doors the C-5s usually had for rear loading and unloading.
In the late-1980s, NASA had two C-5A Galaxies modified to accommodate satellite and space station components. In each aircraft, the troop compartment, located in the aft upper deck, had been removed and the aft cargo-door complex modified to increase the dimensions of the cargo compartment's aft loading area. During 1990, a third C-5 was redesigned with larger rear doors to accommodate even bigger space station components, but the designs were flawed and this poor aircraft was now called “The Dead Chicken”. This C-5 was the ugliest chicken she had ever seen. Its butt was walled with an oversized cargo ramp-door, much like a draw bridge on an English castle, and for some reason it wouldn’t seal and pressurize the cargo compartment during flight.
For weeks she pondered the problem. Every time the aircraft flew up to higher altitudes, the pressurized cargo compartment de-pressurized and this meant that on normal transport operations, troops could not be carried, only vehicles and supplies which could stand freezing conditions.
Her team tried everything: padding the doors, working out a system of bolt-tightening the doors, much like in a naval vessel, and even adding more powerful engines. One day she had to be co-pilot with a test pilot who she didn’t like. He was an ass of a man, but a pilot she respected for his abilities who explained to her that the initial design of the body of the aircraft caused considerable wing disturbance at the rear of the aircraft, enough to suck air out. He understood that with the current sized door, nothing would enable them to fix the problem, and the aircraft couldn’t be returned to its original condition without replacing the whole rear half of the aircraft.
Over the years, the Dead Chicken was forgotten by Maggie, and life went on as normal. Even the detestable test pilot was forgotten, and soon after her last flight in the ungainly aircraft, she moved on to Edwards Air Force Base.
Maggie heard the general put the receiver down and brought herself back to the present.
“Colonel Sinclair, we have a situation north of us. Ever hear of the Dead Chicken, a test aircraft that started at Travis, and I think ended up as scrap at Dover Air Force Base?”
“Funny, sir, I was just thinking about her. I flew over a hundred hours in her, and we never could get that aircraft right.”
“Well, she has been loaned to a small, private space company just north of Creech Air Force Base owned by a civilian named Ryan Richmond. I’ve heard him lecture a few times. He is in this private space race, and not doing very well, I was told by the last guy we sent up there to fly the C-5 for him. I must admit I was surprised that they sent this desk guy, until I was told by Dover’s base commander that he was entrusted to keep them abreast of their advancements. I found that remark rather unfair. Well, they sent him back, and we must supply a new pilot. They seem to be happy with the co-pilot, a captain the Air Force who was sent there at the same time, but we want you to take the place of the man they sent back, and to keep the Dover base commander informed of their progress.”
“Is their progress of so much interest to the Air Force?” asked the colonel.
“Not really, except that the darn president signed off on an amount of plutonium for their energy uses in space, and Congress and the Pentagon want weekly updates on the safety of this non-weapons grade material.”
“Is that all, sir?”
“I think so, plus the Air Force can’t understand why he has such a big program. We have seen hundreds of tractor-trailers enter his private airfield on satellite, far more equipment than he should actually have need for. NASA and our own space projects have been subject to budget cuts by Washington again, and I am secretly hoping that this Richmond guy, and the billions he is investing into his project can give us and a couple of old friends of mine at NASA a new program for space travel we can get involved in. His idea is to eject a space shuttle from the rear cargo doors of this failed C-5 frame and send it into space. One of the other teams, the British team, is also working on this type of launch vehicle, and with what the returned pilot reported, this Richmond fella is nothing but hot air.”
“Sounds like fun. When do I leave?” Maggie asked.
“Tomorrow, I’ve got a temporary replacement to take over from you; Colonel Jeff Smith should be waiting outside. This afternoon fill him in on your workload for the next couple of months. By the way, they don’t allow us to fly in, even though they have a wide 10,000 foot newly-resurfaced runway; so, get yourself to Creech, just south of them, and you will be picked up by somebody. I have other ideas about Ryan Richmond compared to others in the Air Force. I actually met the man several years ago; he is extremely clever, and I think one of the best minds in this country right now. Why the government and even members of the Air Force are so interested in his project I don’t know, but report only to me, and I’ll send whatever I think is necessary over to Dover.”
Maggie nodded, saluted left the office, introduced herself to the colonel waiting for her outside the office, and headed out to transfer her workload.
Chapter 11
A complete flight crew.
It was Tuesday evening, their second night on base and with a couple of hours of free time. As both men had not had a drink for over twenty-four hours, Jonesy suggested to VIN that they try the bar on the main street next to the cinema. It was totally empty and a bartender was cleaning glasses as they sat down at the bar.
“Two cold beers,” asked Jonesy and the man looked at him as if he was crazy.
“It’s Tuesday,” he replied drying a glass with a cloth.
“So? I don’t care what day it is, two cold beers. I can see them in there, in that coke refrigerator behind you. The same type of beers you guys cleaned out of our car a couple of days ago,” Jonesy added.
“Oh! You must be the two new guys everybody is talking about, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The gossip seems pretty accurate. I’ll let you on little secret, guys. Alcohol is only permitted on Saturday afternoons and evenings from 4:00 pm to midnight. Most guys who come in and drink at exactly four Saturday afternoon have been waiting outside for an hour, and are totally drunk by six. If you arrive a little later, most of the drunks, especially the Russians and Germans, have already been carted home by their wives, husbands, or the security guards if they are single. I assume drinking once a week weakens these foreigners’ alcohol intake. They sure can’t handle it.”
“You mean we can’t get a drink?” VIN asked as Jonesy seemed to be wrestling with the information mentally.
“Which language do you want me to explain it in? Russian, German, Chinese or Southern? No alcoholic drinks at the bar! Only milkshakes or sodas, boys, and the boss has given me authority to shoot anybody who tries to break the law. Is that clear enough English for you?”
“And they employ you just to tell us that we can’t purchase alcohol? Damn, I want your job!” replied Jonesy.
“Actually, between my work here at the bar, Mr. Butch Cassidy, I’m an organic food and space biologist; everything served in this bar—beer, wine and potato vodka for the Ruskies—is made here in Hangar Nine, the hangar I am second in command of. Apart from these bottles of beer, you see behind me, which happen to be your beers, and reserved for you for this
coming Saturday night, everything else is in kegs or barrels. Now, can I offer you gentlemen a soda or maybe a chocolate milkshake? Everything is free.”
Jonesy wasn’t happy and stormed out, not waiting for VIN, who ordered a favorite of his, a chocolate milkshake.
“Mr. Cassidy not happy with the arrangements?” asked the bartender with a smile a minute later as he handed over a large milkshake glass to VIN.
“I’m sure any naturally-born, self-indulgent, and proud alcoholic wouldn’t be very happy with the arrangements. His name is Jonesy, and you can call me VIN, short for Victor Isaac Noble.”
They chatted for a while and the bartender was happy with normal conversation, but as usual quickly clamed up when VIN asked him about Hangar Nine.
The next morning they were aroused by an interesting wakeup call. At four-thirty the buzzer sounded, and a voice stated that everybody get into their jogging clothes as it was time for the Wednesday exercise routine.
VIN met Jonesy outside his door in a tee-shirt, shorts, and track shoes, and VIN was dressed the same.
“Feels like the same damn Air Force fitness schedule we used,” Jonesy remarked. “Can you run with your legs, kid?”
“Nope, but I’m sure they will allow me to walk, and I’m sure I can walk faster than some of those old alcoholic scientists we’ve see around here.”
It seemed that the wives and school children didn’t have to join the employees who were gathering on the apron in front of Hangar Three. Everybody was dressed much the same, and now looked slimmer and fitter than they did wearing their white coats.
VIN was surprised to see Suzi ready to go, wheelchair and all, and as soon as she saw him, waved him over; he left Jonesy in the middle of the pack. Orders were shouted and the whole group got into a loose formation anybody in the military would remember. VIN stood with Suzi and followed the exercises, Suzi doing the best she could being helped by her crew out of her wheelchair.
First they did twenty deep knee bends, then twenty knee squats and twenty push-ups. Then they were ordered to do the same again, and again.
For Jonesy, it was tough; the recent period of heavy drinking was taking its toll. He had been fit for most of his life and even though he sweated more than anybody else, he was actually enjoying it.
Then the order was given to run east along the left edge of the runway, around the outer tarmac, return along the right side, and back to the apron. The run would cover about 10,000 feet, since the apron was in the middle of the length of the long runway. A whistle was blown and the 300 or more people jogged out.
VIN noticed tall Ryan in the front, leading the way at a good pace. Jonesy on the other hand took a while to pass him.
Even Suzi was far in front of him, her wheelchair moving much faster than he could walk. He had often tried running, but the doctors had told him that these legs weren’t made for anything but walking, which he managed pretty fast. Jonesy finally passed him in last position at the first end of the runway.
“How far is this run?” Jonesy asked, the sweat pouring off him.
“Suzi said two miles, but the one on Friday is the whole of the runway which is about three and a half,” replied VIN as his partner trundled past looking very unfit for a pilot.
VIN was last when he entered the apron about a hundred yards behind a very tired looking Mr. Jones. Ryan, in the lead, had headed back on the other side long before either of them had reached halfway to the first end. Suzi was only a couple of hundred yards behind Ryan and trying desperately to catch up, her arms spinning the chair’s wheels as hard as she could.
It was the first time VIN felt really useless, not having real legs. In his Force Recon days he would have been a lap ahead of everybody; but he kept to his own pace, entered last, and was a better man for it. Also, he now realized why the bar was only open one night a week. He would hate to be flown into space by somebody as unfit as his partner.
Suzi came up to him, one of the few who knew, or had noticed, he didn’t have legs and shook his hand. “You are not as fast as the Superfraülein in a wheelchair, but with new legs, you might keep up to me, no?”
“With those metal legs, I could probably do the run in one leap, but I enjoyed the exercises,” he replied.
“Wűndabar, Herr Noble! We do the shorter run on Mondays and Wednesdays, and the whole runway on Fridays. It plays hell with the drinking in the bar on Saturday evenings. You will buy me a beer this Saturday, Mr. Noble?” He nodded that he would as Ryan walked up to him, a towel round his neck and wiping off the sweat.
“Mr. Noble, can I trust you to leave our airfield and not tell anybody about what you have seen here?”
“Of course, Ryan,” he replied.
“Or I will never speak to him again, and he will never see his new legs, ever!” added Suzi.
“I have your trust, Mr. Noble?” Ryan asked.
“You have my word as a marine, Ryan,” VIN replied.
“Good, I need you to take your Audi, not mine, and head south to Creech Air Force Base. You drove right past it on the way here.” VIN nodded. He remembered the base north of Las Vegas. “There is a Colonel Sinclair who you are to pick up. I know nothing more, but he is the replacement pilot for the one we drove down there yesterday. It seems the Air Force doesn’t want to miss out on our action and has given me a replacement within twelve hours of getting the last one back. You will leave after lunch, as I want you to spend a few hours with Suzi after breakfast going over what you can expect from us in the prosthetics department. Mr. Noble, Suzi does not work in the prosthetics department, she is like you, a guinea pig for our space-walking program, and I’m sure glad to have both of you to work with. Suzi, for your information only, is Head of Hangar Nine, our biology department.”
“OK!” replied VIN. “I got a chocolate milkshake last night from the bar.”
“I see,” replied Ryan. “So you and Mr. Jones have already tried to purchase your beers back, and met Mr. Rose, Suzi’s number two,” Ryan replied smiling. “Check with the security guards at the first gate after lunch, they have your car keys, and get the gate commander to call me when you have returned to the outer gate with this Colonel Sinclair. I’m off to shower and breakfast.”
VIN looked around; the sun was just about to climb over the low horizon. It wasn’t even daybreak yet!
It felt to VIN as he sat in his car for the first time in forty-eight hours, that a whole month had passed since he had last sat there. His body was stiff from the beating his lower limbs had taken during the walk and the tight seat felt like heaven. He started the car, reversed it out of its newly built carport, and the gates opened for him to pass.
The dusty road was soon swallowed up and he turned south on the highway and gunned the car to see if he could blow the dust off the silver paint job.
Most of it was gone by the time he hit the top of the first rise at ninety, there were a couple of miles of open desolate straight road in front of him, and all he could see was a lonely truck coming towards him three to four miles away. He floored the accelerator, hit 175 miles an hour before the truck, one of the ones he had seen driving to Ryan’s base, approached rapidly flashing its lights which, for some reason made him reduce his speed to close to the speed limit as he passed it by.
He waved at the driver, eased off the throttle and a mile later passed a police cruiser waiting for him to come over a brow in the road. He was only a few miles an hour over the speed limit and the policeman, apart from watching him pass, left him alone.
He reached Creech Air Force Base an hour later and turned left onto the base.
“I’m here to pick up a Colonel Sinclair,” stated VIN at the gate.
“You’re expected. Why don’t you civilians just fly in, instead of driving your fancy cars? We do have a runway just like you guys,” stated the gate sergeant.
“It’s a little cheaper on fuel than bringing the C-5 down to pick up one colonel, Sarge,” VIN replied smiling. “And faster!”
“Are you
military?” the sergeant asked.
“Former Lieutenant VIN Noble, Marines, why?”
“I think I’ve met you before. Weren’t you that Force Recon guy in that Humvee explosion a year or so ago?”
“Could be,” VIN replied.
“I flew out with you on the C-17 back to the States.”
“That’s right! I met you at the coffee machine,” replied VIN. “I knocked your coffee over, trying to walk on these new legs at about 35,000 feet.”
“That’s right, Sir. All of us guys wanted to help you walk, but you were doing all right yourself. It seems you have a better pair of silver legs now. Pull in past the guard house, and I’ll get you a cup of coffee.” VIN did.
“The sergeant came over with a steaming cup of coffee. “The colonel will be about twenty minutes,” the guard said, handing him a cup of coffee.
“Do you think my dog tags will get me into the store? I want to buy a couple of beers for a friend of mine.”
“No problem, sir. I’m on break right now. Give me some cash and I’ll get a six pack for you.”
VIN unlocked the car’s glove compartment and found a roll of bills he had put there for gas. He peeled off two twenties and gave it to the sergeant. “Get me a case of whatever you can, and a small bottle of Jack,” he asked. “The change is yours.”
Fifteen minutes later the sergeant returned with the goods and VIN placed them in the small golf bag sized compartment behind the seats. He covered them up with the soft lose carpet in the bottom of the compartment, and thanked the sergeant.
“You guys dry up there?” the sergeant asked showing VIN the change, over ten bucks, and pocketing it nodding his thanks.
“Yep!” he replied. “As dry as any forward base in Iraq.”
“Look after yourself, Sir. Thanks for the cash. I have to get back to the gate,” and the happy sergeant returned to his post.
A few minutes later a tall female officer with a pack slung over her shoulder and carrying a garment bag came towards the gate; she wore an Air Force uniform showing the rank of full colonel on her tunic. She approached the gate, whistled at the car, signed herself out, and walked over to VIN.
