Dark Wing

by Richard Herman

  “In the Middle East, the Islamic fundamentalists are purchasing nuclear weapons and making ugly noises. Meanwhile, China has not got the message. The Hong Kong airlift is not making a difference and if anything, the PRC has increased the pressure on the British in Hong Kong. We also have reports of heavy fighting in southern China.

  “The president,” Carroll continued, “has issued marching orders. The Middle East must and will remain our number-one priority. We are focusing our effort in that area. The memory of the Persian Gulf War should still be strong enough that a military buildup will douse the hotheads over there with a soaking of cold reality.

  “That brings us to China. The president intends to extend diplomatic recognition to the rebels under Zou Rong in the next few days. Great Britain, France, and Germany will do the same.”

  Mazie noted that not a single Asian country was willing to recognize the rebels. Thanks to Carroll, she thought, the president is on top of the situation and might be able to keep the events in China from spiraling out of control. There was no doubt in her mind that the administration saw the developments in China as a major regional conflict.

  “Unfortunately,” Carroll said, “because of the so-called ‘peace dividend,’ our responses are severely limited.” Carroll paused to let the last statement register with everyone in the room. “So for now, we are going to increase the Hong Kong airlift. We’ve offered the British a squadron of F-1 5s to back them up in case the PLA tries to shoot down a few planes.

  “The British accepted because it makes the airlift more of an international effort without getting the UN involved. Also, it commits us to more support in the future. It’s just like the Brits to get us to help save their bacon—the devious bastards.” Carroll spent the next ten minutes detailing specific responsibilities to his staff. When the meeting broke up he called Mazie aside. “How’s Hazelton working out?”

  “So far, he’s doing great,” she answered. “In fact, he’s at the Pentagon with General Von Drexler making sure we are all playing from the same sheet of music.”

  Wentworth Hazelton was impressed by the efficiency of the organization boiling around him in the basement of the Pentagon. His view of the military as a collection of stumbling and pompous officers fed by overbearing egos was taking a severe beating. What he was seeing indicated that Von Drexler was an organizational genius.

  Within hours after being given the hammers necessary to make it happen, Von Drexler had appropriated the command rooms of the deactivated Watch Center, another casualty of peace, and created his own mini National Military Command Center. By raiding various offices in the Pentagon for experts, he had created the staff he needed.

  “Please, be seated,” Von Drexler said as Hazelton entered his office. “Your name came up in a conversation last night,” he continued. “Some people whose opinions count had some very good things to say about you. I’m glad you came alone because 1 need your advice on some, shall we say, rather delicate matters.”

  Hazelton felt his face blush at the unexpected compliment, but he felt himself drawn to the man, wanting to talk. “I hope I can help,” he said.

  “Well,” the general smiled, “you’ve got to understand where I’m coming from. I’m an old war horse used to doing things the old way.” He held up a hand, stopping Hazelton from replying. “I know I’ve got to change. That’s why we need to talk. You see, I’ve never had to interface at the command level with women and Miss Kamigami is my civilian counterpart.” Again, the hand was up, keeping Hazelton from responding. “I was hoping you could give me some advice before I make a fool out of myself.”

  “Mazie,” Hazelton said, “is arguably the brightest and most intelligent person on the NSC and is an expert on China. She is not a vain person and is very approachable. Treat her like you would the head of any major office and I don’t think you can go wrong.” A relieved look played across Von Drexler’s face, encouraging Hazelton. “She’s not a militant feminist with an ax to grind,” he added. “In fact, she’s very human.”

  “I suppose it’s her lack of a military background that has me worried,” Von Drexler said.

  “She’s an Army brat,” Hazelton replied, “and knows a great deal about the military.” He found the look on the general’s face reassuring and related what he knew about Mazie and her father.

  “Thanks,” Von Drexler said, “for setting me straight. I appreciate it more than you know.” Von Drexler became the professional, sharing confidences with an equal. “As you well know, resources and material are always the most critical issue.” He gave the young man a knowing smile. “Civilians think strategy, military professionals think logistics. Perhaps it would be most productive if you met my director of resources so you can see how we are building up our logistical infrastructure.” The general buzzed for his director of resources and turned Hazelton over to him.

  The door had hardly closed behind Hazelton before he was on the phone to his secretary. “Get me the file on a Command Sergeant Victor Kamigami,” he ordered. “He’s listed as an MIA, but I think I may have located a deserter.” He smiled as he hung up the receiver.

  The colonel escorting Hazelton was short, slender, and with just the beginnings of a potbelly. He spoke with a hoarse gravelly voice and the confidence born of long experience in logistics. “We’ve got serious problems,” the colonel explained. “The force structure of the AVG hasn’t been identified.”

  “When you say force structure,” Hazelton asked, “what are you talking about?”

  “The number and type of aircraft. We also need to know the type of ordnance, sortie rates, expected duration of employment, the total personnel package, anything that has to do with dropping bombs on the bad guys.” The colonel gave a sharp snort of contempt. “We can’t do squat all until that’s decided.”

  “What type of aircraft does the AVG need?” Hazelton asked. It seemed like a logical question to him.

  “Von Drexler wants cosmic jets, preferably F-1 6s and the Stealth, backed up by B-1s. Talk about sending elephants after pissants.” The little colonel decided he could trust Hazelton. “The operations plans section is trying to identify the number and type of aircraft for the AVG right now. You need to talk to them.” He led the young man into a back office.

  The colonel in charge of operations plans was the intellectual counterpart of the director of resources, but he was even more opinionated. “Von Drexler is thicker than a fence post,” the colonel said. “I’ve spent hours talking to intelligence and they say the China theater is a low-threat environment and will stay that way.”

  “So what does that mean?” Hazelton asked.

  “Tell me the threat and I’ll tell you the weapons system,” the operations plans colonel growled. “It means Warthogs.”

  “It also means Von Drexler won’t buy it,” the colonel from logistics said. “Not glamorous enough, too low-keyed, not enough prestige.”

  Hazelton’s first impression that Von Drexler was an organizational genius was falling apart. He had the firm impression that the ego of one General Mark Von Drexler was the driving force behind the MAAG.

  He beat a hasty retreat back to the safe, understandable sanity of the NSC. His secretary had a message for him to go directly to Mr. Carroll’s office in the White House, where Mazie was waiting for him. “What am I?” he groused to himself. “A Ping-Pong ball?” He felt better when he was ushered into Carroll’s office without delay.

  Inside, he immediately recognized Matt Pontowski, who was sitting next to Mazie. The other officer, a thin, slightly hunch-shouldered colonel, was unknown. “Went,” Bill Carroll said, “I’d like you to meet Colonel Charles Tucker, the new commander of the 552nd Air Control Wing, and Lieutenant Colonel Matt Pontowski, the commander of the 303rd Fighter Squadron.” The men shook hands.

  “These two gentlemen have magically appeared out of the woodwork,” Carroll continued, “claiming that we can’t give a war without them. Actually, I contacted Matt here when I heard he was in tow
n beating the bushes trying to save his squadron from the boneyard. He recommended Colonel Tucker be brought in.”

  “This is pure bullshit,” Tucker growled. “Whatever you do in China, you need a warning and command system, which means the AWACS. But no way am I gonna let my crews and aircraft be made part of some volunteer group. That sucks.”

  Pontowski smiled. The colonel hadn’t slowed down since he was made commander of the 552nd and was still living up to his reputation as Tucker the Fucker. “Don’t pay any attention to the colonel’s bark,” Pontowski said. “His bite is much worse.”

  “As part of the deal for recognizing the rebels,” the national security advisor explained, “we cut a deal with the British and deployed a squadron of F-15s to Hong Kong in case the PLA gets trigger happy and tries to shoot down a few cargo aircraft. The Forty-fourth Fighter Squadron out of Kadena is already in place.”

  Tucker interrupted him. “The British can handle their own air defense. Why do they need our help?”

  “Because it gives us an excuse to send in an AWACS,” Carroll said. Mazie caught the exchanged glances between Carroll and Tucker. Neither would continue the discussion with her, Pontowski, and Hazelton still in the room. They didn’t have the security clearances and certainly had no “need to know” about the real capability of the AWACS. The pulse Doppler radar on the E-3 Sentry could reach out over the horizon more than 250 miles and track all aircraft movement deep inside China.

  Tucker gave a sharp nod. He didn’t need things explained to him. With an AWACS on station, they could monitor anything the Chinese put in the air and provide a vital intelligence and command function.

  “You can deploy to Hong Kong as an Air Force unit chopped to British operational control,” Carroll said. “I still want everyone to be a volunteer. Can you make that happen?”

  “In a heartbeat,” Tucker answered. “How many aircraft and crews you want?”

  “Start with one aircraft and two crews,” Carroll said. “I’ll grease the skids with the Pentagon.” He made a note before turning to Hazelton. “Went, what’s happening over at the AVG?” Hazelton recounted what he had observed. “Sounds like someone has to make a decision for Von Drexler,” Carroll said. “He may not like it, but the AVG’s getting Alas.” He made another note.

  “Matt, it gets more difficult with the A-10s since I want to deploy a full-up tactical wing into mainland China. We can always cobble a wing together, but I would rather use as much of an existing unit as possible. That way, we avoid teething problems and can hit the ground running, ready to fly and fight.”

  Pontowski played with the idea for a moment. “I see, you want a wing of Warthogs to magically appear out of the shadows.”

  Carroll nodded. “Right. If you will, a dark wing.” He ran the concept of a dark wing through his set of mental filters, liking the idea. “Everyone will have to resign from the Air Force, in your case, the Reserves, and sign on as a volunteer with the AVG.”

  “Does that classify them as mercenaries?” Pontowski asked. Suddenly, the AVG with its dark wing didn’t look like such a good deal.

  “On the face of it, yes,” Carroll answered. “But everyone will be enrolled on the directed assignment roster.”

  “The directed assignment roster,” Mazie explained, “or DASR, is used for covert operations. Special units like Delta Force are carried on it for political reasons. You are still in the Air Force, paid by the Air Force, and your dependents receive full benefits if you are a casualty.”

  “But if something goes wrong,” Tucker added, “your government will deny you exist and hang you out to dry. Count on it.”

  “There is a downside to it,” Carroll conceded.

  Mazie responded to the tone and emphasis of the men’s words. They were rapidly losing interest in the project. She pulled her father’s letter out of her pocket. “They have to understand what they are volunteering for,” she explained.

  In a few short sentences, Mazie summarized the famine in China, how the PLA general Kang Xun was consolidating power as a new and vicious warlord south of the Yangtze River, and how he was opposed by Zou Rong’s rebels. “I got a letter from my father,” she said, reading it to them. Silence ruled the room when she had finished.

  “ ‘The old cycle of protest and repression has started again,’ ” Carroll repeated, moved by the words he had just heard. “ ‘We are spilling our blood to escape our history of helplessness … I want to give my people their voices.’ I want to show your father’s letter to the president.” Mazie handed him the letter.

  Pontowski stared at his hands. “I can’t think of a better reason to volunteer.”

  “Can you get enough volunteers from your squadron to form the core of a wing?” Carroll asked.

  Pontowski thought for a moment. “I can try. Let me test the waters and I’ll let you know. How long do I have?”

  “No firm time frame,” Carroll answered. “But make it quick. The situation is very fluid in China and the president is holding off on the decision to deploy the AVG. But we’ve got to be ready.”

  Tuesday, April 2

  Tinker AFB, Oklahoma

  The gray E-3 Sentry taxied slowly into the chocks at Tinker Air Force Base. A low ceiling of dark clouds spit huge drops of rain, promising a deluge as a crew chief marshaled the highly modified Boeing 707 into position. The thirty-foot diameter radar dome was still rotating at 6 rpm on top of the two struts that held it eleven feet above the fuselage. The crew chief crossed his two wands above his head to signal a stop and made a slashing motion across his neck to cut engines. He looked at the nose gear and frowned: two feet right of the yellow-painted block the tires should be standing on. This pilot can’t taxi worth shit, he thought.

  The ground crew pushed boarding steps up to the forward entry door on the left side of the fuselage just aft of the flight deck as a crew bus pulled up to transport the crew to operations. The rain started to pelt down as sixteen officers and NCOs of the mission crew that manned the radar and communications systems on board the AWACS (airborne warning and command system) clambered down the steps and ran for the bus. The flight engineer and navigator from the flight crew were right behind them.

  A huge captain appeared in the entry door and glanced over his shoulder. From a distance, he bore a startling resemblance to the movie star Arnold Schwarzenegger. Up close, the image changed—Captain Neil “Moose” Penko had a Cro-Magnon face with kind eyes. He hurried down the steps, getting soaked in the rain as he dashed for the bus.

  “Hey, Moose!” one of the lieutenants called to Penko, “what’s the holdup?” Moose Penko shrugged an answer. He felt the same frustration and fatigue after completing the thirteen-hour mission. “The major’s talking to the pilots,” he said.

  “Oh, shitsky,” another voice added, “what I wouldn’t give to hear that.”

  “You’re not combat ready,” Penko said, “and Major Mom doesn’t take prisoners.” He had been on the receiving end of one of Major Marissa LaGrange’s animal acts and recalled the incident only too clearly. It was on his second mission as a fully qualified weapons controller. He had been working the number-two radar console, directing two F-15s into a rendezvous with a KC-10 tanker for an in-flight refueling.

  LaGrange was the MCC, mission crew commander, and was watching the radar scope over his shoulder when he turned the F-15s too early and rolled them out in front of the KC-10. He had blown the radar intercept big time. LaGrange had kicked him out of the seat and salvaged the busted rendezvous by directing the two F-15s into a tight stern conversion. It had been a virtuoso performance at the radar set. LaGrange’s chewing out afterward had also been masterful. It was an experience he didn’t want to repeat.

  On board the AWACS, LaGrange was standing with the pilots on the flight deck. “Look, numb nuts,” LaGrange barked, jabbing a sharp fingernail into the aircraft commander’s chest, “when I’m sorting out a fuckup because I’ve got a crew full of clueless meatheads, you stay out of it. Copy?”
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  “Come on, Major,” the pilot replied, backing away, “you were coming down way too hard.”

  “That’s none of your business unless it has to do with flying safety. And then you call me up to the flight deck so we can discuss it in private. Got it?” LaGrange spun on her left foot and stomped down the boarding stairs, her blonde pony tail bobbing up and down. “Do it again,” she called over her shoulder, “and I’ll rip your balls off and feed ‘em to you at happy hour.”

  “You’ll have to sew them back on first,” the pilot muttered, careful that she didn’t hear him.

  “Major Mom can really be a bitch,” the copilot said.

  The two pilots ran after her, knowing she would leave them behind to walk if they didn’t board the bus right behind her. A fact of life in the air control wing at Tinker Air Force Base was that Major Mom was anything but motherly.

  After debriefing the mission, LaGrange turned down an offer to join a few of the crew for a beer in the Officers’ Club and headed for the condominium she called home. Once in her bedroom, she shrugged off her flight suit and kicked it into a corner. She glanced into a full-length mirror, carefully appraising her legs. Not bad, she thought, for a thirtynine-year-old woman who stood barely five feet two inches tall. She pulled her T-shirt off, revealing the black lingerie she preferred to wear. It was one of her secret concessions to femininity and Galeries Lafayette of Paris counted her as a valuable customer. Her tummy was still flat and her breasts were firm and well-shaped. But she was getting hippy and her bottom was not as tight and bouncy as it once had been. I need to exercise more, she warned herself.

  She walked into the bathroom and examined her face in the mirror. A face best described as cute with a pert nose stared back. “Girl, you’re showing your age,” she murmured. Worry lines etched the corners of her eyes and she had the beginnings of a double chin.