Battle Born

by Dale Brown

  "As you know, me and a couple of my white boys and girls arrived a couple of days ago to poke around and do some security probes," Briggs said. "We tried everything-the janitor routine, the telephone man routine, the sneak-and-peek routine, everything but a full commando assault. For a unit located on a commercial civilian airfield, their security is pretty damned good. They practice good COMSEC procedures all the time. Airport security is typical-lousy-but security tightens quickly as you get closer to the Guard ramp. Good K-9 unit, good use of manpower, good rotation procedures, good challenge and response and use of authenticators.

  "I found a few unlocked doors and open gates and was able to get close enough to hand-toss some fake grenades at a plane in a fuel dock. We found one bag of shredded classified material in a Dumpster, but it was confetti-shredded and unreadable-still a violation, but not a serious one. Never got access to a plane, never got near their command post or their classified documents vault. Couldn't hack into their classified computer server. Bought lots of drinks, but we couldn't get one single Guard guy in a bar to talk about anything even remotely approaching classified topics-even had one guy report his contact to Furness, who filed the report with the adjutant general, state police, and Air Force Office of Special Investigations at Beale Air Force Base. Rating: 'above average' overall, 'excellent' in critical areas."

  "Good," Patrick said. "What do you have, Nance?"

  "I sound like a broken record, Patrick, but I give them an overall 'above average' and an 'excellent' in mission-essential areas," Lieutenant Colonel Nancy Cheshire replied. Cheshire, a petite dark-haired woman in her late thirties with large doe eyes and a little button nose, was one of the Air Force's toughest and most talented test pilots. She was the first female pilot to fly the B-2A Spirit stealth bomber, but her real accomplishments had come as Dreamland's first and greatest female test and combat pilot, flying three secret missions in experimental B-52 bombers over the past several years. Now she was the chief test pilot of the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center.

  "It was a pleasure to watch these Guard guys go to work," she continued. "The battle staff, operational support squadron, and command post performed flawlessly in all the scenarios. Good security procedures, good time control, good use of checklists and command doctrine. One overdue situation report and one brainfart with a radio frequency that broadcast a coded message on an open frequency prevented them from getting an overall 'outstanding.'

  "I was primarily concerned about the mobility line, but that's where this unit really earns an 'outstanding' score. It must be the unit's recent history with C-130 transports, but these guys run a mobility line more efficiently than anyone I've ever seen. Excellent use of computers, with most programs custom-written for this unit. Almost no wasted time. But the key is the folks going through the line, and I've got to say that this unit has got the procedures down cold. Everyone had updated records, everyone had current vaccinations, everyone had their required gear. This unit was waiting for their transportation to arrive. It's a small, close-knit unit, true, but these folks are revved up and ready to fight."

  "They can generate, they can pull alert, and they can mobilize," Dave Luger summarized. "The big questions now are ..."

  "Can they fight, and can they deploy and then fight?" Patrick finished for him. "Maybe it's time to load 'em up a bit and see how much mayhem they can take."

  Nancy Cheshire gave an evil grin. "You gonna make it hurt, Muck?"

  "This is not a training situation here," Patrick replied. "I want to see what they got. It might hurt a little." He nodded to all of his staff officers around him. "Thanks for all your hard work, guys. Unclassified summary reports in my e-mail box by sixteen hundred hours today; classified summaries by tomorrow morning. I'll see you at Tonopah."

  Suppressing yawns, they all left the Step Van except for Dave Luger. "How are preparations for Lancelot progressing back at the home drome?" Patrick asked.

  "General Samson has got the Lancelot modification kits ready to go for the first two planes-we just need the planes and we're ready to go," Luger replied. "He received authorization for two more kits. By the time we're ready to fly one and two, we should be starting work on three and four. Leaving one for a ground training article, that should leave us with three operational birds in two to three months." He paused for a moment, then added, "From what I've seen so far, we might be looking at our best candidates right here. The birds are in excellent shape; the maintenance guys are top-notch; they have good facilities and good support. What do you think?"

  "I don't know, Dave," Patrick replied uneasily. "I agree, the machines are in good shape-it's the aircrews I have a problem with. These guys have a real cocky attitude. Furness delights in telling everyone to go to hell, and it's rubbed off on her troops. They were mouthing off at the adjutant general right to my face, all of them. Rinc Seaver is the worst of the bunch-the best, but the worst." Patrick got up, stretched, then told their driver to head over to the squadron building.” The force is different from when we were pulling a crew, Muck," Dave said. "Since the Strategic Air command's bombers were absorbed by the Tactical Air Command, all the crewdogs are like fighter jocks--they're cocky, tougher, more aggressive, more competitive, and lots smarter. The force is smaller and leaner, which means that only the best of the best get to fly. And the Air National Guard is all that and more. They're like a pack of wild starving wolves fighting over who's going to kill the caribou. I don't think we need to straighten them out-I think it's us that needs to realize what the modern-day force is like."

  "Maybe so," Patrick said grumpily, suddenly feeling very old. "But some of them can still use a good dose of whup-ass."

  Luger watched his longtime friend stifle a jawbreaking yawn. "You ready to fly, partner?" he asked with a smile. "It's been-what, five years, six?-a long time since you've been in a B-l."

  "I'll be fine, Dave," Patrick said. "I know the Bone like the back of my hand-"

  "I'm talking about you, partner," Dave interrupted. "It's been about a year since you ejected out of the Megafortress. Are you ready to start flying again?"

  "I have been flying for the past year or so, Dave ..."

  "I don't mean flying prototypes, simulators, test beds with a bunch of engineers, or the BERP suit-I mean flying a real sortie with a real crew, as part of the crew," Luger interrupted again. "You don't have to do this, you know. Nancy can give Seaver an evaluation, and I can certainly let you know if these guys are the real deal or just hot dogs. Besides," he added with a serious expression, "you old guys need more sleep."

  Patrick scratched his nose with an uplifted middle finger, making sure Luger got the message, then clasped him on the shoulder. "I'll be fine, partner," he said. "This will give me an opportunity to get back into the real world. I'm looking forward to this."

  Dave nodded. "Then go get 'em, Muck," he said. "I'll be on the SATCOM if you need me." Patrick nodded, successfully stifling another yawn. They were silent for a moment. Then: "You can always take command of the squadron," Dave said.

  If Patrick had been a bit drowsy a moment ago, he now looked as if he had been blasted awake by heaven's trumpets. He stared at his partner in utter surprise and asked, "What did you say, Dave?"

  "Don't tell me you haven't thought of it already," Luger said, grinning. "If Furness can't control her troops, she deserves to get taken down a peg or two. She's treating this squadron like her own personal plaything, true, but the operative word is 'her.' Take it away from her, even for a short time, and then see what kind of commander she is. If she straightens out, good. If she doesn't, you've saved the state of Nevada the task of removing her, and you've still created a better unit. Plus, you get your first command."

  "Dave, my job is to give this evaluation and report back to Samson, not pirate an Air National Guard command," Patrick said. "Besides, I've got a job. I've got a dozen projects that need my attention. I can't just leave-"

  "Ah, the first sign of mental illness-thinking that you're i
ndispensable," Dave said. Patrick scowled at him, then shook his head, laughing it off. "Muck, I know you. You're not a desk jockey. You're a crewdog. You've always been one and you'll always be one, no matter how many stars you wear. But you're also a one-star general in the United States Air Force, and that means you command. This Lancelot unit is going to be your creation-why not take command of it?” Dave, the idea is nutzo," Patrick said, shaking his head. The Step Van pulled up in front of a squat concrete building. Patrick grabbed his flight gear and manuals and headed for the door. "I'm not here to replace Furness or kick her ass or teach her how to fly the Bone-I'm here to observe and report. That's all I'm going to do, and then I want to go home to my wife and son and my work that's piling up back at Dreamland."

  "Yes, sir," Luger said, obviously not believing a word of it. "Have a good flight . . , commander."

  A security guard posted inside the front door of the squadron building called the squadron to attention as Patrick walked in. "As you were," Patrick responded as he showed his ID armband to the guard. Even with a major exercise going on, someone still thought about calling the unit to attention when a senior officer entered the building. Just as his staff said in their preliminary exercise report-impressive.

  Patrick found Lieutenant Colonel Rebecca Furness in one of the squadron mission planning rooms a few minutes later, writing a schedule on the whiteboard with felt-tip markers of various colors. "Morning, Colonel," he said.

  "General," Furness responded. "Briefing in fifteen minutes. Coffee's in the Casino. I'll get one of the guys to help you find things."

  "I'll find it," Patrick said. He walked back to the "Casino," the squadron's lounge, found a guest coffee mug, and poured himself a cup. Gripes, Patrick thought, even each squadron member's coffee cup was clean-he never remembered seeing such a spotless coffee bar back at his old B-52 base. There was beer on tap-with a pair of fuzzy dice tied around the beer tap handles, signifying that the bar was closed. There were a few slot machines, some pinball and video games-all unplugged-and a big popcorn maker, with all the fixings for jalapeno popcorn, where they mixed chopped jalapenos in with the cooking oil. There was a "crud" table, which looked like a regular billiard table except there were no pool cues around, meaning that the balls had to be propelled by hand as the players raced around the table in a sometimes physical free-for-all. Over the bar, the squadron's "Friday" name tags were on display, with each flier's call sign on the patch instead of his first and last names.

  Like all of the TV sets Patrick saw all over the base, the lounge's TV was on and tuned to CNN. As it had been for the past several weeks, the international news was about North Korea. One of the planet's last communist states had barely come through last winter intact. Hundreds of thousands of citizens had died of starvation, sickness, and exposure because of a lack of heating oil, food, and medicines. There had been yet another unsuccessful attempt on President Kim Jong-il's life; the perpetrators had been arrested, publicly tried, and publicly executed by firing squad, all of this shown around the world on CNN. President Kim then executed several military officers on charges of conspiracy, treason, and sedition. Food riots were commonplace; all were harshly, even brutally, repressed by government forces.

  But at the same time, North Korea continued a massive military buildup that surpassed all other Asian countries'. They had tested another rail-garrisoned Daepedong-1 intercontinental nuclear ballistic missile, firing it over sixty-five hundred miles across the Pacific, and were promising to make it operational within the year. An advanced longer-range version of the missile, the Daepedong-2, reportedly had a range of over nine thousand miles, making it capable of hitting targets in the continental United States. They had deployed the Nodong-1 and Nodong-2 rail-mobile nuclear ballistic missiles, capable of hitting targets all over Japan, including Okinawa. They had hundreds of short- and medium-range ballistic missiles, some carrying chemical or biological warheads; and some of their nine-thousand-plus artillery pieces and howitzers were also capable of firing nuclear, chemical, or biological weapons shells. In a country with a population of only twenty-four million, a per capita income of less than nine hundred dollars, and a negative growth rate, North Korea was spending a staggering thirty percent of their gross national product on defense.

  What was equally puzzling was South Korea's reaction to the North's huge military buildup. Instead of calling for a larger military buildup of its own, or for increased help from the United States, the South Korean government was actually increasing aid and outreach programs to the North and simultaneously erecting roadblocks to a greater American presence on the Korean peninsula. The United States had fewer than ten thousand troops stationed in South Korea, almost all of them observers, advisers, and instructors, not combat forces. Compared to North Korea, the South's military forces were much more modern, but a fraction of the size. Yet while the South's defense budget barely .managed to hold steady year after year, its budget for economic aid, humanitarian programs, cultural exchanges, and family reunion programs with North Korea was rapidly increasing.

  Was this part of the Korean mind-set? Patrick wondered as he watched the news piece on the growing North Korean crisis. Help your enemy even though he wants nothing more than to crush you? Or was South Korea naively assuring its own destruction by feeding and supplying its sworn enemy? Every time another spy ring or cross-border tunnel was discovered, South Korean aid to North Korea increased. When Wonsan was nearly destroyed by a nuclear device three years earlier, reportedly by China in an attempt to divert world attention from its attempt to conquer Taiwan, it had been South Korea that sent money and equipment to rebuild the city.

  He returned to the mission planning room and studied the schedule Furness had put on the whiteboard. It had been copied from a page from a three-ring binder, part of the extensive array of "plastic brains" the squadron used to do every chore, from turning on the lights to going to war. "Good idea," Patrick remarked as he reviewed the contents of the binder. "No need to remember how to organize for a mission briefing-it's all in here."

  "No need to reinvent the wheel on every sortie," Furness said. "Everyone does it the same, so there're no surprises. If something gets missed, someone will know it."

  Every step of mission planning was organized to the exact minute: show time, overview briefing, intelligence briefing, the "how d'ya do?" briefing-a short meeting to check everyone's mission planning progress-the formation briefing, mass briefing, crew briefing, step time, life support stop, weather and NOTAMS briefing, flight plan filing, bus time, time at aircraft, check-in, copy clearance time, start engines time, taxi time, and takeoff time. Each crew member in the formation had a job to do-everything from preparing flight plans, to getting sun positions during air refuelings and bomb runs, to getting lunch orders, was assigned to someone. He or she would return to the mission planning room and drop off the paperwork for the flight leader to examine, and then check off the item. Patrick’s task written on the whiteboard was a simple one: "Hammer on Seaver."

  At that moment, Rinc Seaver walked into the mission planning room. "Morning, General, Colonel," he said formally. Furness did not respond.

  "Good job on that EP sim ride, Major," Patrick said. He had decided to give Seaver an emergency procedures simulator evaluation, loaded up with a fairly demanding scenario, to see how he could handle stressful situations. What Patrick had really wanted to do was duplicate the fateful Fallen mission, to see how it could have been done differently. But as he told Furness and the others, he wasn't there to investigate the crash. "I like the way you delegate the radios and checklists. Shows good crew coordination, good situational awareness."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "I thought you were a little too aggressive," Furness said. At Patrick's request, Rebecca Furness had flown in the evaluator's seat, while two systems officers operated the SO's side of the weapon systems trainer; terrain-following systems would only work in the sim if the SO's cab was powered up too. He also asked Furness to
administer his closed-book and emergency procedures written test. "Why ask for CITS codes and the expanded tech order text?" she went on. "It got distracting. You were juggling too many balls in the air at once."

  Rinc looked at Patrick, who nodded. "She's right," Patrick said to Seaver. "You obviously know your stuff, but you did get a couple steps ahead of the crew as they ran through the troubleshooting matrix, and it was distracting. You had a handful of broken jet to fly." He turned to Furness. "Good call, Colonel. Anything for me?"

  "You're rusty, you don't know local procedures that well, and you don't verbalize enough," she replied. "But you got the job done and brought your crippled jet back home. I'd fly with you. You'd fly anyway, I suppose, even if you were picking your nose the whole time, right?"

  "Right. But thanks. I'll give my official critique to General Bretoff, but I rated Seaver's performance an 'excellent.' Good job, all of you."

  "Thank you, sir," Seaver said. Furness offered no congratulations. Seaver copied some notes from the whiteboard, then departed.

  "I gotta tell you, Colonel," Patrick said as he watched Furness work, "I'm very impressed with the squadron- Everyone's doing an exceptional job.” You say that like you expected us to be a bunch of drunken slobs," Furness retorted.

  "No. But it's certainly getting tough to explain how you lost a jet and a crew."

  "I don't suppose you believe in plain old bad luck, do you?"

  "Sure I do," Patrick replied. "You think it was bad luck?"

  "Yep. Shit happens. You fly jets long enough, something bad happens. It's a dangerous business."

  "True," Patrick admitted. "But I've noticed in the sim and looking over the accident records ..."

  "I thought you weren't here investigating the crash, sir."