A burst of static, and her voice came back, ‘…kill the little bastards. Right? We’ve got to kill the anthrax before it reaches the ground. Why not use jet fuel?’
Monty turned to Victor and said, ‘Is she right? Can jet fuel kill anthrax?’
Victor said, ‘I ... I don’t see why not - jet fuel is petroleum-based, quite harsh to anthrax. But how do you get the fuel from their fuel tanks to the canisters?’
Carrie’s voice seemed to carry through the entire room. ‘Not fuel from our jet. Fuel from another jet. A refueling jet, like the Air Force KC-10 or KC-135. They have booms they lower to refuel aircraft. But instead of trying to fuel us up, they’d fly ahead of us while we’re descending to below three thousand feet. And when we cross that mark, they start dumping fuel. I’ve seen it before. The fuel makes a big cloud of vapor, and we and the anthrax will fly right through it. Very precise flying, but if it works ... we can dump that anthrax into a big cloud of JP-4 aviation fuel. Kill it before it reaches the ground.’
Brian could not believe what he was hearing. Could it? Would it?
Monty said, ‘Victor - tell me it’ll work.’
Victor swallowed. ‘It’s...it’s possible ... I mean, you won’t have a hundred percent...but hell, it’s a lot better than a shoot-down and having the anthrax spray out as the fuselage descends. Question is, can you get those refueling aircraft to those three AirBox planes in time?’
Monty got up and started running out to the Operations Center.
~ * ~
Lt Gen. Mike McKenna said, ‘Mister Zane, we’re working, working it right now ... hold on, all right.’
‘All right,’ came the voice on the other end of the line. McKenna put the phone down. He waited in his office. Waited. Looked at the phone, knew that one of these days he’d have to meet this guy, face to face, and find out how in hell he did what he was doing without cracking. Right now, he could use some tips. Outside on the floor his adjutant, Colonel Anson, was huddled with other officers, talking, gesturing with her hand, and then she looked around at the other officers, nodded, and ran back up to his office.
She was out of breath. ‘General... with so many overseas on deployment. . . it’s...it’s. . .’
‘Go on.’
‘Two, We have just two KC-135s that can reach them, once we configure the refueling booms so they can dump the necessary fuel.’
‘Which ones?’
‘The flights in Missouri and Kentucky. We don’t have anything in the area that can reach the one in Pennsylvania in time.’
‘I see. All right, get on it, get those jets to the AirBoxes in Missouri and Kentucky.’
McKenna picked up the phone and said, ‘Mister Zane, got a mix of news for you
~ * ~
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Monty said, ‘Could you repeat that, general?’
McKenna said, ‘We will have two KC-135s airborne shortly that can reach the AirBox aircraft in Missouri and Kentucky. The KC-135 heading to Missouri just came back from a refueling mission over Nebraska. They’ll have enough fuel to do the job. The Kentucky KC-135 is fully topped off and is on its way. But your AirBox flight in Pennsylvania, one-oh-seven...it’s going to be tricky.’
‘Define tricky.’
‘If we can get the KC-135 in Kentucky to your AirBox flight in time - and if they can disperse the fuel in record time - and if your AirBox flight in Pennsylvania flies on an intercept mission to them...they might have enough time and fuel to pull off a rendezvous.’
‘That’s a lot of ifs,’ Monty said.
‘Like I said, tricky. But your one-oh-seven flight - if it doesn’t get pulled off. . .’
‘I know. A one-way trip.’
‘Hell of a thing,’ McKenna said.
‘On that we agree, general.’
~ * ~
Aboard AirBox 15 over the Ozark Mountains, Steve Jayson said to his captain, Trent Mueller, ‘Tell me again you’ve had experiences with KC-135s.’
‘That I surely have, son,’ Trent said. ‘Back in my days, humping C-141s, I refueled from them a number of times. But today it’s going to be some tough flying. We’re breaking all the rules, you know.’
‘No, I don’t know,’ Steve said. ‘Enlighten me.’
‘KC-135s are converted Boeing 707s, flying fuel tanks. Carries about 120,000 pounds of JP-4 aviation fuel. You’ve got your pilot, co-pilot, navigator and an NCO in the rear who operates the refueling boom. The boom is an extendable piece of equipment, deploys from the rear. Job of the other aircraft is to fly tight formation directly behind and below the KC-135. The guy at the rear, the “boomer”, maneuvers the boom into the second aircraft’s refueling port. Airborne refueling at its best.’
‘And what rules are we breaking?’
Steve heard his captain laugh. ‘Thing is, the receiving aircraft - us - is supposed to be below and behind the KC-135. Flying constant altitude and speed. But according to the ACARS message, we’re going to be flying just above the KC-135 as it’s dumping its fuel, and we’re both going to descend at the same rate. So that fucking anthrax flies into the fuel cloud. And, by the by, we’ll be flying into the fuel as well. Might screw up our instrumentation. Might cloud up our windscreens. Might cause the engines to choke up and cause a crash. Nice stuff like that.’
‘Holy shit,’ Steve said.
‘Nothing holy about it, pal.’
A message crackled in Steve’s earphones from the regional ATC: ‘Ah, AirBox one-five, your tanker, Cheyenne Six, is 270 for fifteen miles, heading three-six-zero at flight level two-two-zero.’
Steve toggled the radio microphone, ‘This is AirBox one-five, flying heading three-five-zero for rendezvous.’
‘Maintain flight level two-one-zero and two hundred and fifty knots. Contact Cheyenne Six on second radio on frequency one thirty-two point five.’
Trent said, ‘Steve, I’ll talk to the tanker. You keep talking to ATC.’
Steve saw Trent dial in the radio frequency and key his own radio microphone. ‘Ah, Cheyenne Six, this is AirBox one-five.’
‘AirBox one-five, this is Cheyenne Six. Air National Guard, at your service.’
Trent replied. ‘Glad to see you, guys. You got the brief, right?’
The pilot said, ‘Got it. Let’s do it.’
Trent swallowed. Just beyond a range of mountains, the gray form of the KC-135 came into view.
‘All right,’ Steve said. ‘We’re visual. We’ll be coming up behind vou shortly.’
‘Roger, AirBox one-five. You’re cleared in.’
Steve said to his pilot, ‘Air National Guard. Christ.’
Trent said, ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Weekend warriors.’
Trent was silent and Steve thought his captain hadn’t heard him. Then Trent corrected him.
‘Steve, most of these weekend warriors have ten or twenty years’ flying under their belt. They have a hell of a lot more experience then some active-duty guys. And these weekend warriors are putting their asses on the line to make sure that you and I don’t end the day as smoking pieces of charcoal - try not to forget that, all right?’
His face burning, Steve said, ‘I won’t.’
~ * ~
In an Air Force KC-135 designated as Pegasus Four - the aircraft was almost ten years older than the oldest member of its four-person crew - the navigator, Lt Jeannette Smith, tapped the pilot on his shoulder and said, ‘Sir, incoming flash message.’
The co-pilot and pilot both read the message, then looked up at each other. The co-pilot, Lt Travis Wood, said, ‘Can you believe this ?’
‘These times, I can believe almost anything. Travis, get the rendezvous going with ATC. Looks like we don’t got much time.’
‘Roger, sir.’
‘All right, let’s do it,’ the pilot said. He toggled the intercom and said, ‘Pilot to boomer.’
‘Sergeant Hiller, sir.’
‘Come forward, will you? We’ve just been assigned a mission. Two mi
ssions if we can handle the first one well - and it’s screwy as all hell.’
‘Bless the Air Force, sir. I’ll be right up.’
The navigator looked at the message again. ‘AirBox...your dad works for AirBox, doesn’t he?’
Captain Thomas Tuthill said, ‘Yes. He’s head of the machinists’ union.’
‘What a coincidence,’ she said.
‘Yeah,’ Captain Tuthill said, seeing the Kentucky landscape unfold beneath them. ‘Hell of a coincidence.’
~ * ~
Aboard AirBox 107, Carrie Floyd maneuvered the jet to the intercept heading that had been sent to them by Air Traffic Control, and said, ‘Sean, Alaska is sounding better and better.’
Sean said, ‘So now you tell me...Carrie, check the fuel gauge, all right?’
She gave it a glance. ‘I see it.’
‘We’ll be right at the edge. If it doesn’t go right we’ll be sucking fumes...’
‘Then it has to go right, doesn’t it?’
‘Love your attitude.’
Carrie said, ‘Glad it was that and not my tits that attracted you.’
‘Among other things.’
‘Co-pilot, do me a favor, start looking for the Air Force, ail right?’
‘Sure.’
~ * ~
Aboard AirBox 22, Captain Hugh Glynn rubbed at his chest again as the indigestion burned and burned at him. But the pain was forgotten when his co-pilot, Stacy Moore, said, ‘There. I’ve got it at eleven o’clock!’
He saw the familiar shape of the KC-135 out there on the horizon, felt his chest tighten with excitement - a welcome change from indigestion. Stacy was excited and who could blame her? Less than a half-hour ago, they were looking forward to becoming one of the first civilian aircraft to be blown out of the sky since 9/11 - a hell of an achievement that he could cheerfully have skipped.
Now, now there was a chance. A chance to make it through this day alive.
In his earphones, he heard Stacy say, ‘Pegasus Four, AirBox 22, we’re visual. . .’
The strong voice came back. ‘Roger, AirBox 22, you’re cleared in. Time is short, ma’am, so let’s get going.’
‘A pleasure, Pegasus Four,’ Hugh sent back. ‘A real pleasure.’
~ * ~
Steve Jayson of AirBox 15 had flown on some serious ass-puckering missions, including one in a sandstorm over Kuwait, and another time, coming into Gander when he was flying FedEx, with one engine and then two quitting on him just before landing. But nothing had prepared him for this particular mission, with his asshole crawling up to his mouth.
Ahead of them was the steel-gray KC-135, flying slightly below them, and behind the jet, trailing out, was the refueling boom, with a tiny wing on each side, spraying out fuel, a pinkish cloud that spread out wide. Trent was flying so tough and hard, chatting it up with Cheyenne Six, and Steve’s job was to monitor the instruments, especially the altitude, engine performance and time.
‘AirBox one-five, maintain two thousand feet.’
‘Roger that, Cheyenne Six. Maintaining two thousand feet.’
The KC-135 was so close that it seemed to fill the sky in front of them. In a bubble just above the refueling boom, a man was visible, maneuvering the boom. The boomer, he was called, and Steve was praying that the older man knew what in hell he was doing.
‘Looking good, AirBox 15.’
‘Thank you, Cheyenne Six.’
Another look at the gauges. Everything looked normal and level at two thousand feet. That was for sure. And down there, in the belly - the belly of the beast - that damnable anthrax was being sprayed. If the guys on the ground knew what they were doing, the vile stuff was being killed before it could reach the ground.
Steve kept his mouth shut, knowing that Trent was so fucking busy, keeping everything in place. Just a few minutes more and—
Jesus!
A bump of turbulence or something and the damn refueling boom was closer and closer and—
THUD!
The top of the boom struck the hull, right near the wind-screen, and Jayson didn’t know what to say, when—
Trent tweaked the yoke, just tweaked it, and the KC-135 was where it should be, back in position. Steve swallowed and the radio crackled. ‘Nice job, AirBox one-five.’
‘Thanks,’ Trent replied
Steve tried to swallow again. He couldn’t. His throat was too dry.
~ * ~
Hugh Glynn on AirBox 22 got to where he had to be, his chest burning again, and saw the fuel boom extend from the rear of the Air Force jet. His co-pilot said, ‘All right, just twenty minutes of flying, Hugh. That’s all. We can get on the ground nice and safe. Twenty minutes of flying and we’re done.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’
The jet seemed to grow larger in the windscreen as they approached.
~ * ~
In his earphones, Captain Thomas Tuthill heard his boomer Master Sergeant Bobby Hiller say, ‘AirBox flight is in place, captain.’
‘All right. Start the dump. When you reach fifty thousand pounds, shut her down. We’ve got another AirBox flight depending on us.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He switched from intercom to radio, called out, ‘AirBox 22, Pegasus Four.’
‘Pegasus Four, good day.’
‘Good day, sir. We’re dumping fuel now. Maintain altitude and speed.’
‘Roger, Pegasus Four.’
Thomas Tuthill looked over to his co-pilot, Lt Travis Wood. ‘Hey, Trav.’
‘Sir?’
‘What a job, huh?’
‘Sure.’
‘Well, at least you’re getting what you want.’
‘What the hell is that. . . sir?’
He punched his co-pilot lightly on the arm. ‘You said you wanted to do more in the war on terror — so here’s your chance.’
‘Shit. Lucky me.’
‘Nope,’ Tuthill said. ‘Lucky us.’
~ * ~
The pink cloud in front of AirBox 15 suddenly slowed and disappeared. Steve Jayson said, ‘Trent, what the fuck is going—’
And then the interruption: ‘AirBox 15, this is Cheyenne Six. Gas station is empty, we’re heading home - suggest you do the same.’
Trent Mueller said, ‘Cheyenne Six, nearest piece of flat concrete you got, that’s where you’ll find us. Thank you and good day.’
‘Good day to you, AirBox 15.’
Steve checked the fuel gauge. Less than twenty minutes’ worth of flying. He was going to say something but what was the point?
‘Trent?’
‘Yeah?’
The jet was now descending and turning, and off there in the distance was a beautiful, beautiful county airfield that was probably too small but was going have to do.
‘Trent, whatever happens, a brilliant piece of flying. Beautiful.’
‘Hey, that’s very nice of you. Want to do something for me?’
‘Sure.’
‘Shut the fuck up so we can get this piece of metal on the ground.’
‘You got it, Trent.’
~ * ~
Back in the Operations Center the low roar of phone calls, keyboards being tapped and people talking was starting to subside. Monty sat back, feet up on a desk, looking at the display board and the three icons marking the last of the AirBox flights. Brian Doyle sat next to him, hands folded across his lap. Tuthill and the General were confabbing about something, and Victor being Victor, the doc was keeping to himself.
Monty said, ‘Ever hear the expression “hoist on your own petard”?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Know what it means?’
‘Not sure. I think it means something about getting fucked-up because of something you yourself did. Am I right?’
Monty kept his gaze on the display screen. ‘Yep. Came from a line in Shakespeare, from Hamlet. A petard was a crude explosive device, used to breach gates. But they were tricky to use. Sometimes the fuse burned too quick and blew up the guy se
tting the bomb, as well as the gate. Hence, to be hoist on one’s own petard.’
Brian said, ‘When this is all done with, I guess the Tiger Teams will be one huge petard.’
Final Winter Page 47
