by T. E. Cruise
“You know, Buck… I’ve been thinking,” Greene mused. “I love what I do. and like every one of the pilots in my squadron I fought tooth and nail to get this assignment. I get to fly as much ACM as I can handle, and that’s the best kind of flying there is.” He nodded firmly. “I mean, it’s a dream come true for me….” He trailed off.
“But…,” Buck coaxed. He had his hat off and was holding it in his lap to keep it from blowing away. The few sparse hairs on his head were flapping like signal flags in the breeze.
Greene said, “But all that doesn’t change the fact that, bottom line, the elite, ferocious Attackers are basically clay pigeons—hell, tackling dummies—for the visiting players.” He glanced inquiringly at Buck. “Maybe we ought to be refining our tactics to give them even more of a run for their money? I mean, I hate the way some of these visiting players get off so easy.”
“Is that really what’s bothering you?” Buck coaxed. “Is it that some of the players get off easy, or is it one player in particular you’re concerned about?
Greene saw that his friend was watching him closely. It was no secret that Buck was an extremely solicitous dude, kind of the father confessor for the squadron, but what accounted for that expression of concern mixed with accusation that was presently radiating from Buck’s weak blue eyes magnified by his thick eyeglasses?
Then it came to Greene: Buck devoured paperwork the way other men took in food and drink. Obviously, Buck had scanned the visiting-player roster—all fifty-odd pages of it —and saw the name, which must have rung a bell. (Buck knew everything.) It would have been a snap for Buck to have run it through the computer. Then… bingo!
Buck asked, “You sure it’s not the fact that this time around, as far as you’re concerned, Red Sky is going to be a blood feud that’s bugging you?”
“Goddammit, Buck,” Greene cursed, staring straight ahead as he tightly gripped the steering wheel. “You’re about as subtle as a B-52! I mean, goddammit! I love you like a brother, but sometimes you just talk too fucking much for your own good!”
“Sorry,” Buck murmured as they pulled up in front of Red Square, a cinder-block building painted white, with a blood-red hammer and sickle stenciled above the front door. “Forget I said anything,” Buck finished, shrugging.
Greene thought, “Love you like a brother…” Did I really say that? Talk about your Freudian slip!
(Two)
Red Square
Attackers Squadron Operations Building
It was close to nine P.M. by the time Major Robbie Greene had caught up with the day’s paperwork. His large office had white walls, an acoustical tile ceiling, tan metal furniture and file cabinets, and windows overlooking the OPS building’s parking lot. The office was decorated with a framed, silk-woven, Soviet-style red star; configuration posters of Russian aircraft; and various plaques, notes of appreciation, and other thank-you mementos from the player squadron groups that had gone through Red Sky. It was a nice office. Lots nicer and roomier than a major warranted, but then, being the “head honcho Commie gomer” had its privileges.
Despite his comfortable surroundings, Greene prided himself on spending as little time as possible here. He was a flier, not a desk man. His usual MO was to let a week’s worth of his paperwork mount to overflowing in one of the several In boxes he had scattered around the place and then settle in for a marathon session of skimming the bullshit and scrawling his name whenever required. He never could have gotten away with such behavior if he didn’t have Buck to keep him abreast of the really important stuff, but then, he did have Buck, so, all in all, the burden of command wasn’t much of a hassle for him, considering that he had a revolving roster of twenty-five pilots, twenty airplanes, at any one time five or ten Attacker pilot trainees, and three hundred ground and support personnel under his command. Greene’s immediate superior was his wing CO, Colonel Larry Field, but the colonel was a good guy, content to leave Greene alone to run his squadron as he saw fit.
Now Greene leaned back in his swivel chair and swung his feet up onto his blessedly cleared desk. At this hour of the evening, everyone else had knocked off for the day, so Red Square was quiet. Greene was thinking about rewarding himself for going one-on-one with his In box and coming out on top by heading over to the O club for a cold one, when he heard a knock on his door.
“Come in,” Greene called. The door opened. “Well,” he said. “I was wondering when you’d get the balls to show up here.”
“Thanks for the friendly greeting, brother dear,” said Lieutenant Andrew Harrison. “Or let me amend that to half brother.”
“You can amend it to no brother at all, as far as I’m concerned,” Greene replied evenly. He looked Andrew over. The kid was a little under six feet tall, and built solidly. Andrew’s thick blond hair was cut moderately short and worn casually brushed forward. He was just going on his twenty-second birthday, but already Andrew had the fighter jock’s characteristic squint lines etched around his brown eyes that were the result of long hours spent scanning the sun-bright sky from various cockpits.
Greene noticed that Andrew was wearing his plastic photo ID badge identifying him as a visiting player pinned to the breast pocket of his service dress uniform. That was unusual. “You know,” Greene began, “most of the visiting fighter jocks take pride in wearing their flight suits.”
There was just the hint of a mocking smile on Andrew’s face as he said, “I figured this would be more appropriate dress for a visit to a superior officer.” He gestured toward a chair. “May I sit down. Major?”
Greene nodded, and when Andrew was seated, asked, “Well, what do you want?”
“‘What do I want,’ “ Andrew mimicked. “Yeah, you sure do know how to express familial warmth.”
Little fucker is still a snotnose. Greene thought. “Listen to me,” he said, cutting Andrew off. “I’ve had a long day, I’m tired, I’m in no mood to deal with that sarcastic, effete intellectual attitude you inherited from your father. I never could tolerate it when Don came on strong with it against me or Uncle Steve, so I’m sure as shit not going to put up with it from the likes of yow.”
“Yes, sir!” Andrew said, deadpan.
Greene studied him. “Lieutenant Harrison, I hope you don’t intend to give me trouble during your stay?”
“It depends.”
“On what?” Greene demanded sharply.
“On where we are,” Andrew replied. “On the ground you’re my superior officer and I intend to treat you as such.” He grinned coldly. “But in the air, half brother of mine, all bets are off. I’m going to give you all the trouble you can handle when we fly one versus one during Red Sky.”
Greene leaned back in his chair, smiling. “You think you’re going to be a match for me one vee one?” Greene shook his head. “You don’t have a prayer, kid.”
“I’m good, Robbie.”
“Sure you are.” Greene nodded. “As far as you go,” he qualified. “Your squadron had to be good, or else it wouldn’t have gotten to Red Sky. Let’s see, your squad is the 9th-the “Blue Wolves”—which is part of an F-66 Stiletto Tactical Fighter Wing based at Howard, right?”
“You’ve been reading up on me,” Andrew remarked.
“I knew you’d show up at Red Sky sooner or later.” Greene shrugged. “That thanks to our mother you had enough Gold family blood in your veins to make it this far.”
“I’m going to make it all the way,” Andrew said fervently. “I’m going to make it to the top! Past you.”
“No, you won’t,” Greene calmly replied. “Your trouble, little Andrew, is that the dose of the right stuff you inherited from our mother isn’t going to be enough to take you all the way.” He shook his head in mock sympathy. “It’s really too bad. Maybe if you’d had a fighter-pilot father, like I did, you’d have a chance of being really good, but your father is Don Harrison, a wishy-washy egghead with nothing between his legs but a slide rule.”
“Don’t talk that way about my
father.”
“And you’re just like Don,” Greene pressed on, gradually losing his icy cool. “That’s why when it comes time to make that final cut between us in ACM, I’m going to come out on top, just like my father came out on top with our mother. Answer me this, little Andrew,” Greene spat. “If my father had made it through the war that your father draft-dodged, do you think you ever would have been born?”
Greene had watched Andrew stoically take what he’d had to say the way an armored warbird endures 50-caliber blistering punishment. Now Greene tiredly prepared himself to absorb Andrew’s answering volleys as hatred glowed like tracer fire from his half brother’s brown eyes.
“Permission to speak frankly. Major?” Andrew asked harshly.
“Go ahead.”
“Let me bring you up to speed on a few things,” Andrew began, sitting rigidly in his chair. “I am proud to be Don Harrison’s son. And he didn’t draft-dodge the war. My father was given an exemption for reasons of national security, just like they gave to Grandpa Herman, because my father was such a talented aviation engineer. It was my father who led the design team that created the Amalgamated-Landis Cougar fighter, and the Bullwhip attack bomber, two combat airplanes that did more to win the Second World War then anything your fighter-pilot papa ever did!”
“You through?” Greene asked, angry all over again.
“No, I’m not! I want to tell you something else, Robbie. I think you’re a son of a bitch. You always were a son of a bitch toward me, and now I’m convinced you always will be. Back when I was getting ready to come here. I entertained the notion that even if the two of us could never be friends, we could at least be cordial with one another, but now I know that’s not possible, because you’re too blinded with hatred.”
“That’s enough,” Greene began fiercely, but Andrew ignored him.
“Because you need to blame me for your own neurotic hang-ups concerning the loss of your father—”
“Shut up!” Green thundered, finally silencing his half brother. A few seconds of silence ticked by in the charged office. When Greene next spoke, it was with a voice trembling with pent-up emotion. “Andrew, for as long as you’re here at Ryder, I intend to treat you exactly as I would any other visiting player. No better and no worse.”
“Oh, I think you’d better treat me much Worse,” Andrew warned. He leaned forward in his chair to plant his fists on Greene’s desk, so that he could spit his words into Greene’s face. “Because when we find ourselves one vee one, our fight is going to be personal, and after I’m through with you you’re going to have to change that hot-shit Attackers shoulder patch you wear to show that bear’s hind end, with its asshole shaved pink!”
Just then Greene could have easily wrapped his fingers around Andrew’s throat and choked him to death. Instead, he took a deep breath and let it out, willing himself to regain his calm. “You’re dismissed. Lieutenant.”
Andrew stood up, came to attention, and sharply saluted. “Yes, sir! Major!” He turned on his heel and went to the door, where he paused. “Remember what I said, Robbie. I’m playing no-holds-barred.” He strode out of the office.
Greene listened to Andrew’s footsteps receding down the hall. He looked down at his hands and saw that they were shaking. His stomach was twisted up into knots, his heart was pounding, and his brow was bathed in sweat like he was in the cockpit and had just completed a six-G bat-turn.
How dare that fucking little punk talk to me that way! Greene endlessly repeated to himself. How dare he!
He waited until he was absolutely sure that Andrew was gone, and then made his way out of his office and down the corridor to the men’s room, where the squadron had put up posters of Marx and Lenin, and a banner reading, “Gentlemen, we salute you…” over the urinals.
Greene went to the washbasins and ran a cold tap, splashing the water onto his face. He dried himself with paper towels and then leaned against the basin to study his reflection in the mirror. He was going to be thirty-six come December, but like most fighter jocks he looked older. His black hair and his mustache had become seeded with gray, and the creases around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth were becoming deeper.
It all happened so long ago, Greene thought, staring at his reflection. So why do I still feel like that frightened little boy on the day he found out that his mother was remarrying? Why do I still feel bitter hate and fearful loneliness the way I did on that first day I had to start living under the roof of the man who expected me to call him “Dad” when I knew he could never replace my father?
(Three)
Lieutenant Andy Harrison went for a long walk after his confrontation with Robbie. Andy- didn’t know where he wanted to go, but he knew it wasn’t back to his quarters, a trailer he was sharing with two other guys from his squadron, which had flown here all the way from Howard AFB in Panama.
It had been a hurting ten hours in the cockpit, all right. Andy considered the Stiletto a fine bird, but Grandpa Herman and Andy’s father hadn’t designed her to be a one-man jetliner. Then again, how far a player had to fly in his own bird to Ryder was the luck of the draw. Some lucky-stiff players had only a hop of a few minutes’ duration from their bases in California, for instance. The Red Sky philosophy was that the reality of modern warfare was one itty-bitty piece of combat, and a whole lot of getting to the fight. For that reason, all participants were expected to fly their airplanes from their home base to Ryder as if they were rushing to a hot spot somewhere on the globe, with stopovers allowed if tankers weren’t available, but aerial refuelings being the rule. The Air Force wanted its pilots and air crews to be able to endure grueling stretches in the cockpit in order to get where they were going as quickly as possible. Sure, it wore a guy out, but as the saying went, “War is hell.”
Andy’s squadron had arrived late Friday, and they’d had the weekend to recoup. Now, on this Monday night, with a pleasant breeze blowing off the desert and the lights of Las Vegas brightening the horizon, Andy was feeling pretty chipper and ready for come what may.
He strolled about a half-mile down Thunder Alley, checking stuff out. The base was well-lit, and busy around the clock, with shuttle buses running twenty-four hours a day. As Andy reached the TACCC complex, he thought about heading into the snack bar for a soda, but instead he went where he guessed he really wanted to be all along: He crossed the street to the players’ aircraft parking ramp, near the maintenance complex.
Roy Rodgers talked to Trigger, and Gene Autry talked to Champ Andy thought. So why I can’t I talk to my warbird?
Sure the F-66 Stiletto was just a machine, but it was Andy’s machine: it had his name stenciled on the side of the cockpit. More important, his Ice Pick was going to be the means through which he was going to show Robbie Greene who was top dog between them once and for all.
The ramp was crammed with row upon row of airplanes parked six or seven abreast, interspersed with whining, orange painted electric carts belonging to the maintenance crews, who even at this late hour were still busy seeing to the visiting players’ birds. The ramp held F-4 Phantoms, F-66 Stilettos, F-15 Eagles, A-7s, A-10s, choppers, and then there was the bigger stuff. In all, it was a massed air armada that stretched for over two miles.
The ramp was also lit to daylight intensity, and well patrolled by security details. Andy had hardly set foot on the ramp when he was intercepted by a four-wheel-drive vehicle wearing flashing blue lights. The guards toted M 16s as they hopped out to check Andy’s photo ID. Satisfied he belonged where he was, they looked up his squadron’s location on their clipboard. It turned out Andy’s Stiletto was parked with the rest of his squad’s birds, a quarter-mile away, so the guards gave him a lift, remarking along the way that it wasn’t unusual for a visiting player or two to become homesick for his bird the first couple of nights at Ryder.
As the security truck came to a halt, Andy hopped out, thanking the guards, but wearing a worried frown as he spotted his bird. Why was it his was the only Stiletto i
n his squadron being serviced? Oh, no! What if there was something wrong? What if he was grounded?
He hurried over to where a lone maintenance guy wearing baggy overalls and a duckbilled cap was standing on a metal scaffolding platform beside a box of ominous-looking tools. The maintenance guy had his back to Andy and his head stuck in the open bay just aft the Stiletto’s nosewheel carriage.
“Hey, pal! What’s wrong?” Andy anxiously demanded as he approached his plane.
The mechanic didn’t turn around, but just but held up one work-gloved hand to silence Andy. “Hey. pal,” Andy repeated. “I mean Sarge,” he amended as he noticed the stripes on the guy’s sleeve. “That’s my bird you’re working on.”
“He’s your bird in the air,” the maintenance man said. “He’s mine on the ground.”
He? Andy thought. Who called an airplane ‘he’? Andy shook his head. The mechanic’s voice was somewhat muffled due to the fact that the guy had most of his head stuck into the open bay, but Andy still thought the guy’s voice was pretty high-pitched. Like it hadn’t changed yet. Just how young was the Air Force taking them into the Aircraft Generation squadron these days?
“Sergeant,” Andy demanded, putting a little steel into his tone. “You’re talking to a lieutenant who demands to know the status of his airplane!”
The maintenance guy pulled his head out of the open bay and turned around to face Andy.
“Holy cow. Sarge,” Andy murmured. “You’re a girl—”
“No, I’m a woman. Lieutenant,” she corrected him, her tone amused. “Are you too young to know the difference?”
Girl or woman, Andy thought. You’re beautiful.
She’d removed her cap, liberating her hair, which cascaded in shiny, auburn waves to her shoulders. Now, as Andy watched, she stood on her raised platform and performed an impromptu striptease. First she pulled off her work gloves, revealing long, slender fingers with pink enameled nails. Then she unzipped and shucked off her overalls….
