by Dale Brown
Breakfast was served in the bottom-floor dayroom of the dormitory in which the 111th Aces High men and women were billeted. It resembled a standard Air Force base’s transient lodging facility — except for the security. Like every building they could see, it was surrounded by tall barbed-wire fences and ringed by security cameras. They decided it was very much like being in prison.
Breakfast was “continental”—rolls, toast, cold cereal, juices, and coffee, wheeled in a tall stainless-steel warming cart, along with the Las Vegas newspaper and USA Today. Like the TV, the papers focused on the Korea situation.
Except for occasional comments about a TV or newspaper item, there was almost no talk. Then John Long and Rinc Seaver reached for the copy of USA Today at the same time. “You’ve got it, Long Dong,” Rinc said.
“No. Go ahead.”
“I can wait.”
“Jesus Christ, Seaver, you irritate the hell out of me every time I talk to you,” Long snapped. “Take the damn paper, I said.”
“Is that an order, sir?”
“Hey, how about I order you to shut your fucking mouth, asshole?”
“What is it with you, Colonel?” Rinc asked angrily. “You can’t give me one goddamn break. I do a good job for you, I bust my nuts to be the best, and all I get is grief.”
“Everyone gets what they deserve, Seaver,” John Long said. “Maybe you get grief because you deserve it. Maybe you just rub most folks the wrong way. That’s why everyone hates your fucking guts.”
“No one asked you, Long.”
“Hey, Major Jerkoff, you watch who you’re talking to!” Long retorted. “Act like an aviator instead of teacher’s ass-kissing pet…”
“I got an ass for you to kiss, Long, right here.”
“Maybe you ought to be kissing a little less butt with your buddy the general and concentrate on doing your job,” Long said. “You almost killed us yesterday on the range. I’m surprised you didn’t punch out again, Seaver.”
The other members of Aces High were startled; this was the first they had heard of the incident. “The general probably had to fight to keep your hands off the handles.”
“You’re the ass-kisser, Long,” Seaver said. “You got your nose so far up Furness’s ass that she needs to fart for you to breathe.”
Long lunged at Seaver in a rage so violent that it stunned. Long got in one good shot at Seaver’s face and drew blood from a cut on the lip before Seaver fought him off.
“Knock it off!” Furness shouted. Someone tried to grab Long’s arms from behind, but he shrugged them off and went at Seaver again. This time it was Furness who got in his way. “I said knock it off, John!” she shouted again.
“I’m gonna kick that asshole’s butt but good!” Long yelled. “He damned near kills his crew again, and he has the nerve to mouth off at you and me?”
“Room, ten-hut!” someone called out. Everyone automatically snapped to attention as Patrick McLanahan and Hal Briggs entered the dayroom.
Patrick looked at Seaver’s cut lip, then at Long, and finally at Furness. “What the hell is going on in here, Colonel?” he asked.
“Hangar flying, sir,” Furness replied.
“Don’t shit around with me, Colonel!” Patrick snapped. “I’m asking you again, what the hell is going on in here?”
“We are having a critique of our first day on the ranges, sir,” Furness replied. “Our discussions sometimes get a little heated.”
“How did the major’s lip get cut?”
“I cut myself shaving, sir,” Rinc replied.
“Is that right?” Patrick walked over to Seaver and looked him in the face. Seaver kept his eyes straight ahead. “It looks to me like you got hit, Major Seaver. Colonel Briggs?”
Hal Briggs grabbed John Long’s right hand and lifted it up so everyone could see. Long tried to snatch it away but found Briggs’s grip as strong as steel. There was a gash on his right middle knuckle. “Looks to me like Colonel Long hit him with his right fist, sir,” said Briggs.
“Did he hit you, Major?” Patrick asked.
“No, sir.”
“Don’t lie to me, Major!” Patrick shouted. “There are reasons for every argument, and even reasons for someone to take a swing at another officer. I can understand such actions. I can even excuse them if they’re provoked, or if there’s good cause and the man is genuinely sorry and willing to repent. But I will not tolerate lying for any reason. A liar is someone of imperfect and questionable character. A liar is not fit to fly in my planes. A liar is not fit to wear a uniform or command a fighting unit. A liar is not fit to walk upon the same ground that true American heroes have walked on. I will turn in my stars and wings before I allow a liar to remain one second longer on this base and tarnish the honor and memory of the great men and women who have stood here and given their lives for this country.”
Patrick stood face-to-face with Rinc Seaver. “Now, which are you, Major? Are you going to lie to my face? Are you going to show me you have no character? Or are you going to tell me the truth and let us deal with this incident like officers?”
“I will tell you the truth, sir,” Seaver responded.
“That’s all I ask, Major,” Patrick said, much more gently. “After all, it does look like you were the wronged one. The truth never hurts the innocent. Now, what happened? Is my chief of security’s observation wrong? Did Colonel Long strike you?”
“I cut myself shaving, sir,” Seaver said.
“What are you, Major, some kind of idiot?” Patrick asked angrily. “Where do you think you are, back in your high school gym locker room in Galena having an argument with your school pals about who’s going to ask Polly Sue to the prom? Remind him, Colonel Briggs.”
“This is Dreamland, Major,” Hal Briggs snapped. “Everything and everyone within one hundred miles of where you’re standing is wired for sound and video and recorded twenty-four hours a day every day of the year. You are wired for sound. These walls are wired for sound and video. You can’t jerk off under the covers of your rack without us knowing about it, Major!”
“All we have to do is pull the tapes of your little ‘hangar flying session’ and we’ll know the truth,” Patrick went on. “Now, I’m going to ask you once more, and you better tell the truth or I will destroy what’s left of your military and civilian aviation career: did Colonel Long strike you?”
“Sir…,” Rinc said. He swallowed hard. “I cut myself shaving, sir.”
Patrick McLanahan glared at Seaver, clenched his jaw as if he was going to continue the tirade — then nodded. “Very well, Major,” he said. “If that’s what you say, then you live with it.” He turned away to wipe off the smile that had started in spite of himself, then addressed Furness. “Anything to say, Colonel?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
“Good.” He straightened up and faced the squadron members, still standing at attention. “Get your gear packed,” Patrick said. “You’re leaving.”
“Leaving?” Furness said in astonishment. “Why? What’s going on?”
“There’s no mission, no program,” Patrick told them. He forced himself to look the squadron members in the eye and found it very difficult. “Seems ACC disapproved of my methods to recruit fliers and airframes for my project. We’re shut down. Get your gear together and stand by to depart.”
There was a long, stunned silence. Patrick turned for the door, but Furness’s words stopped him. “What about… us, sir?”
He faced the members of Aces High and said, “You’ve been decertified by Air Combat Command as not mission-effective, based on the results of yesterday’s range activity. You are therefore unqualified to be federalized and ineligible to be tasked for any missions in support of the active-duty force. The state of Nevada is thereby ineligible to receive any federal funds to support further flying activity. Therefore, the squadron has been stood down as of today by order of the Nevada adjutant general and the governor.
“Since you were Nevada’s only Air
National Guard organization, and the state has not been offered any other flying missions by the Air Force, there is no reason to keep you on the state payroll any longer. You have all therefore been placed in inactive mobilization augmentee status until you can be reassigned, transferred, or dismissed from state service. That is all.”
“That’s horseshit, sir!” Seaver cried. “They can’t do that to us! You can’t do this to us!”
“I’m not doing a thing, Major,” Patrick said, trying to keep his voice under control. “Air Combat Command looked at the radar data from your mission and busted you for range safety. It’s simple. You knew the ROE, and you broke them. Everything that happened afterward is a result of what you did on the range. You’re decertified. Pack your bags and prepare to depart the fix.”
“What happens to our planes, General?” Rebecca asked. “Or is that classified super-top-secret too? You always wanted our planes — now you’ve got them.”
“The planes don’t belong to me — they belong to the state of Nevada,” Patrick said. “As soon as they decide what to do with them, we’ll ferry them out. But I can almost guarantee they won’t be going back to Reno, and I can definitely guarantee that they won’t be flown by the 111th Bomb Squadron.”
“General McLanahan, we’re asking you to reconsider,” Rinc Seaver interjected.
“Not possible. Not being considered.”
“You know as well as I do that no one else in the world can fly the Bone like we can,” Rinc said. “Yes, we got busted for range safety violations, but we beat two F-15 Eagles and every SAM and triple-A site you threw at us and we hit every assigned target. The only way we could do that was to bust ACC’s ROE. Tell me, sir: Does Dreamland even have a ROE for their ranges? Is there any such thing as Level One, Level Two, or even a Level Three ROE? Or are you allowed to fly however possible in order to get the mission accomplished?”
Patrick said tersely, “All good points, Major. Except for one problem: no one gave you permission to invent your own ROE in Air Combat Command’s ranges during their evaluation. You knew the rules of engagement, and you broke them. If you showed me your skills and accuracy while following the ROE, we could’ve taken it one step further — we could’ve taken it into my ranges, where you could’ve rocked and rolled your asses off. But you didn’t do that. You busted. You’re out.”
“But, sir…”
“End of discussion!” Patrick snapped. “Be ready to depart in twenty minutes. That is all.” Patrick stormed out of the building, followed closely by Hal Briggs. The security guard outside the gate barely got it open in time to avert the general’s wrath.
“I’ll drive,” Patrick said to Hal as they reached his staff Humvee.
“Oh shit, you must be really pissed,” Briggs said. He got his seat belt on just as Patrick roared off. He pulled out his secure cell phone. “Those Guard guys, they got some nerve talkin’ to you that way,” he said.
“They can talk all they goddamned want,” Patrick snapped. “They’re out of here. They learned the hard way that there’s a time for the crazy shit and a time to follow the proper procedure. They’ve flaunted the rules for years. It cost them a bomber and three crew members, and they still fly like they’re insane. They deserve to get shit-canned.”
“Absolutely, sir,” Hal said. He started speed-dialing a number. “They sure are nutzo. Totally unpredictable. They fly like they’ve got nothing to lose. They’re not afraid to do whatever is necessary to get away from the bad guys and kill the target.” He stopped, listened, then said into the phone, “Yes, sir. General McLanahan calling secure from Elliott Air Force Base… Yes, sir, please stand by.” And he handed the phone to Patrick.
“Secretary Chastain?” Patrick asked him.
“No.”
“C’mon, Hal. You’re getting slow. I thought you could anticipate my every—”
“It’s the White House,” Hal interjected. “General Freeman, national security adviser. He wants to meet with you. In Washington. Right away.”
Patrick looked at Briggs’s broad, shit-eating grin. “That’ll do, Hal. That’ll do,” he said, and took the call.
They drove back out to Foxtrot row, where the Nevada Air National Guard B-1 bombers were stored. General Terrill Samson and Lieutenant Colonel David Luger, along with the adjutant general of the state of Nevada, Adam Bretoff, and the governor of Nevada, Kenneth Gunnison, were waiting for them. They had just come down from the first modified EB-1C Megafortress bomber, and Bretoff’s stunned expression was still fresh on his face.
“General Bretoff, Governor Gunnison, may I present General McLanahan, my deputy and chief of operations,” Samson said. “He’s in charge of the Coronet Tiger program.”
“I feel like we’ve already met, General,” Bretoff said as he shook hands. He was a short, rather round man, but the devices on his uniform, both Regular Army and Nevada National Guard, attested to a long and distinguished military career. Gunnison was tall and silver-haired. He looked like a rancher or an old-time oil wildcatter; his steel-blue eyes promised no nonsense and warned that he would take no bull from anyone.
“Nice to finally meet you in person, sir,” Patrick said. “Sir, I realize you may think this is dirty pool, but it was the best way I could think of to convince you to agree to our plan.”
“I don’t understand half of what I’ve just seen,” Governor Gunnison admitted, “but I’ve never seen old Adam here so bug-eyed before, so it’s gotta be good stuff.”
“It’s the only one like it in the world, sir,” Patrick said. “We want to build an entire squadron of them, and we want to base them in Nevada. We need your support to do it.”
Gunnison looked the Megafortress over again, then rubbed his chin. “You know, son, I’m all for supporting our military and all that shit,” he said. “But we need to talk about the bottom line. Nevada doesn’t have a lot of money to invest in military planes, especially planes that the state can’t use for disaster relief or quick logistics, like we did the C-130s we had in Reno. This is all Cold War stuff to me.”
“We’re talking about basing at least eight and as many as twenty B-1 bombers in your state,” Patrick said. “Making improvements, hiring workers. The infrastructure construction and improvements would all be at federal expense. We give you the tools, pay to fix up your installations and surrounding infrastructure to our standards, and pay for training and upkeep. The state pays a small salary to keep highly trained guardsmen and their families in the state; but when they are federalized, which we think with our mission will be quite often, they’re on our dime, not yours.”
“I’ve seen the budget figures and mission projections, sir,” Bretoff said. “Quite impressive. A one-of-a-kind mission, high-profile and very exclusive.”
“Where are you thinking of basing this unit?” Gunnison asked.
“They would be here until the unit stands up,” Terrill Samson said. “But we were thinking northern Nevada again, though perhaps not Reno. The old training base near Battle Mountain is a good possibility. Plenty of land, good neighbors, the old runway in pretty good shape for our planes. We know you want to send a little more industry and opportunity into the northern part of your state. We can help.”
That sold it for the governor. Any talk of bringing growth to sparsely settled north-central and northeastern Nevada was music to his ears. “I think we might be able to talk business, General,” Gunnison said. “What do you need from me?”
“We need you to assert your rights to these planes, that’s all,” Patrick said. “Your flight crews were involved in some… well, some aggressive flying tactics yesterday. The Pentagon wants to slap the crews down and confiscate these planes. You can’t let them do it, sir.”
“I’ve slammed my door in Washington’s face before, gents. We Nevadans enjoy doing that sort of thing.”
“They’ll threaten you with everything in the book,” Samson warned the governor. “Lawsuits, obstruction of justice, investigations, bad press, political pr
essure, threats to cut off federal funding…”
Gunnison took this in stride too.
“We’re not too concerned about that either,” Patrick said. “Frankly, sir, we’re worried about when the Pentagon gets to the money phase.”
“Oh?”
“Your planes here are worth a lot,” Patrick admitted. “The Pentagon will start with small numbers — fifty million. But they’re worth two, maybe three hundred million in spare parts.”
“Holy shit,” the governor exclaimed. “All that for these four little ol’ planes?”
“I’m talking three hundred million each, sir.” They saw him gulp in surprise. “I know, it’s a lot of money. But we’re asking you to say no. We don’t have a billion-dollar budget, but we’re offering to set up a flying unit like no other in the world. Only Nevada will have it. In fact, it may be worth more than a billion dollars to Nevada, but only in ways that can’t be shown on a balance sheet.”
“Who knows?” Samson added with a mischievous smile. “Maybe someday they’ll rename the base after the governor who took a chance and started it all.”
Gunnison hesitated — but only for a split second. He held out a hand, and Samson shook it warmly. “You got yourself an air force,” he told them. “Any chance I get to thumb my nose and bare my hairy cheeks at Washington I’ll take — they fuck with Nevada too much as it is already. You can do whatever fancy shit you want to ’em — the more the merrier. Battle Mountain is a pretty good name for the base — maybe name one of these monsters after the wife, paint one of those sexy nose art portraits on there.” He paused, then asked, “You’re going to fly these things over there in Korea, aren’t you? Protect Korea from being fucked by the Chinese again?”
“I’m afraid we can’t talk about any possible missions we might be involved in, sir,” Patrick said.
“Good answer, son,” Gunnison said, smiling. “I was in the first Korean War, and when I left I felt we still had a job to do. ‘Battle Born’ is our state motto, you know. Maybe now, with a few of these Battle Born beasts over there, you can finish the job me and my buddies set out to do back in ’52. Get to work, and give me a ride in her when you get done kicking some ass over there in Korea.”
