Return to Honor

by Doug Beason

  Krandel felt pleased that Weston remembered. “That’s right. Got two little rug rats, too. How about yourself? You weren’t dating anyone in school.”

  “I got married about a year out of Quantico. Been divorced for two years now. You know how it is—being away from home all the time is rough on the family life.”

  Krandel nodded. “Sorry.”

  “That’s all right.” Weston clasped Krandel’s shoulder. “Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ll catch you on the rebound.”

  Krandel shook his hand. “Take care, Harv. We’ll get together.”

  “Yes, sir—I’m sure we will.”

  Weston spun on his heels and left, leaving Krandel blinking about the “sir” his classmate had tagged on. He started to call after him but was interrupted. “Bill Krandel. How do you do, son? Any trouble making it out here?”

  Krandel turned and smiled.

  Brigadier General Allen W. Vandervoos was as big as they allowed marines to get in the service. His bulky frame wasn’t fat—the bones were too large to allow that—but it was solid. And his presence was overpowering. He was a typical general officer. When you were around him, you spoke only when he wanted you to speak; he told you what to talk about, and when he was finished, you stopped talking.

  General Vandervoos was flanked by his aide, a youngish but serious-looking lieutenant who politely ignored Krandel’s presence.

  Krandel stuck out his hand. “How are you, sir?”

  “Fine, Bill. And you?”

  “Couldn’t be better, sir. The trip from D.C. went well, and I’m ready to go.”

  “Good. How are Maureen and the kids—get them settled in?”

  “We just got in from L.A. this afternoon. We spent a few days touring Disneyland and Knott’s Berry Farm before heading down here. I’ve got the family put up at the TLF.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Vandervoos nodded toward the bar.

  “Let’s sit down and talk, Bill. I’ve got some things to let you in on before you take over my battalion.”

  “Yes, sir. By the way, is there any way I could meet my gunny tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” General Vandervoos turned to his aide, then back to Krandel. “Bill, this is Stephen Moranz, my aide. He’ll help you out.”

  “How do you do, sir?” The second lieutenant stepped forward and briskly shook hands with Krandel.

  “Fine, Lieutenant. Could you arrange that meeting for me?”

  “No problem, sir. I’ll track down your gunnery sergeant and have him ready when you want him. Do you have a particular time in mind?”

  “Any time in the morning.”

  “Well, sir, the battalion finishes their run by 0630. How does 0700 sound?”

  “Fine. I’ll be at Battalion HQ.”

  “Very well, sir.” The lieutenant turned to Vandervoos. “Anything else, General?”

  Vandervoos waved him away. “Get lost, Stephen. Colonel Krandel and I have some catching up to do.”

  “Yes, sir. Good afternoon, sir.” He nodded at Krandel and backed away, leaving the two alone.

  Vandervoos steered Krandel to the bar. “Let’s have that drink, Bill. It’s 1600—the drinking light is lit.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After ordering drinks, Krandel stood behind his chair at the table and waited for the general to sit. Vandervoos waved him down. “The 37 Smilers are a good bunch, Bill.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard, sir.”

  Vandervoos pulled out a cigar case and offered it to Krandel. Krandel shook his head. Vandervoos drew out a cigar, wet it, and bit off the tip before lighting up. He blew smoke away from Krandel and said, “I know this is your first command, Bill, so I don’t want you to feel the pressure of having to show me you’re some kind of superstar. I’ve seen what you can do.”

  Krandel shifted his weight in his chair. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me yet.” Vandervoos took a pull on his cigar and settled back in his chair. He got a faraway look in his eyes. “Having a command is probably the best job in the world. You’re on your own out there; nobody is looking over your shoulder trying to second-guess you. I never realized how much fun it was until I got my first command. The only thing that ever came close was the time I coached my daughter’s soccer team. I had total control then, as you will now. And that experience is necessary. Especially if you go into combat. And with the 37th, that’s a possibility.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard. In fact, I just met Captain Weston—one of my classmates. He has a platoon in the 37th.”

  Vandervoos nodded. He looked quickly around the room and, seeing no one nearby, lowered his voice. “Good man. He just took over the RDF. Are you familiar with it?”

  “Well, sir, I thought that the entire 37th was assigned to the Rapid Deployment Force. They could be called to action anywhere at any time.”

  “That’s true. Part of the 37th is on alert all the time. If the balloon goes up, our men will be on the next plane out of Pendleton no matter where the action is. But what distinguishes Weston’s platoon is the way they get there. They use TAVs to get to the strike area instead of a cargo plane.” Vandervoos sipped his drink.

  Krandel nodded. He recalled that one of his classmates at the War College had been a project officer for the TAV. It stood for Trans-Atmospheric Vehicle, the air force “space-plane” dropped from a 747 mother ship. It was similar to the old X-15, but bigger and better. It took less than an hour to get to any spot on earth.

  The original TAV, the National Aerospace Plane, had the capability to launch from the ground, but decades ago congressionally-mandated budget cuts forced the air force to go with a cheaper craft. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best thing going.

  Vandervoos continued: “There’s berthing for one squad aboard each TAV. Weston’s platoon will take four planes to get to the strike area.”

  Krandel nodded. “That’s right. I’ve heard of the TAV, sir, but I didn’t know it would be used for the RDF. I guess it really does put meat into the rapid part of RDF.”

  Vandervoos answered wryly, “I’ll say. And by the way, that’s for official use only. The government doesn’t want to broadcast the fact that we use TAVs—mostly for political reasons. It might look as though we’re trying to develop a first-strike force. The entire project is what we call a ‘black project.’ No one quibbles about the money we spend on it, and we don’t tout its existence.

  “Anyway, Weston’s platoon works intimately with the air force out at Edwards. We try to get the platoon at least one flight per month for training.”

  Krandel toyed with his napkin. “How do the troops get back, sir?”

  “That’s the catch. The TAVs don’t have the capability to launch without the mother ship, so once they reach the strike area, they’re stuck there. But any time we’d need them, it would be a last-ditch effort anyway. We’d recover the troops with traditional transports like the C-17, which means that although they can get somewhere in a hurry, they’ll have to wait awhile to get back, out of the strike zone.” He noticed Krandel’s frown. “Don’t let it disturb you, Bill. Every man in the RDF is a volunteer and knows his rear is on the line. Besides, as commander, you won’t be going with that particular unit—that’s Weston’s job. You’ll be going in with Headquarters Squad on C-17s, with the rest of the battalion.”

  Krandel took a long pull on his drink. The liquor felt good after the drive down from L.A. today, and he had always felt comfortable around the general. Krandel’s first assignment out of Quantico was as Vandervoos’ executive officer. The then-Colonel Vandervoos had taken a liking to the sharp young officer and had groomed him for promotion. He’d kept track of Krandel’s career, and when a hand was needed to steer the tides of fate, Vandervoos had interceded.

  Krandel leaned forward. “It certainly sounds challenging, sir.”

  “It will be. And if you can handle this, I can almost guarantee you that once you get back to the Pentagon you’ll have a star waiting for you. We need men
like you in the corps, Bill. Good, sharp managers who know how to think on their feet. It’s a different corps from when I was in your place. That damned Mexican fiasco has changed everything around, and it will be men like you running the corps.

  “So don’t step on it. Get this operational command out of the way, and you’ll go a long way.”

  Krandel held up his glass in salute. “Thank you, General. I’ll do my best.”

  Vandervoos returned the salute and grinned. “I know you will, son.” He shot down the drink and turned to the hostess. “Miss, another round here, and make them doubles this time.”

  Edwards Air Force Base, California

  As Major Robert Gould hopped the three feet from the TAV to the asphalt runway, the hot desert air hit him like a bag of cement. It wasn’t the heat that made him fume—it was the maintenance pukes holding up his debrief. Four o’clock, he thought. The hottest part of the whole day, and the friggin’ Flight Test Center commander won’t release my craft because of a maintenance check.

  Moments before, in the still, air-conditioned coolness of the TAV, Gould had watched the shimmering air rise from the ground in front of Base Operations. That was when he’d gotten notice over the command post frequency that there’d be a “short holdup” before he could turn his TAV over to his crew chief. Colonel Mathin wanted to speak to him personally.

  Gould swung his gaze to Base Ops; on top of the building an oversized billboard exclaimed:

  Welcome To

  Edwards Air Force Base

  United States Air Force Material Command

  elevation 2302 feet ASL

  Although brown with dust, the white-bordered sign still managed to elicit a feeling of pride. He wouldn’t admit it, but having the opportunity to fly with the best … to walk quietly through the O-club with his orange flight suit and just know every fighter jock in the place would be envying him … to be at the cutting edge of technology … it was like living in heaven. It was something he wouldn’t admit to anyone, but man, it was great!

  He was totally absorbed in the flying, from the TAV’s gut-wrenching launch to the recovery back at Edwards. He wasn’t just flying here, he was flirting with … greatness. The Yeagers of old had made their mark, and here he was—walking in their footsteps.

  Ten years ago he would never have dreamed it possible. With a month to finish UPT (Undergraduate Pilot Training) he’d SIE’d to fly helicopters, giving up forever his chance to fly fixed-wings.

  His wing commander had a fit: Here was Gould, Willie’s top stick, pulling a “Self-Initiated Elimination.” And why? Because it turned Gould’s stomach knowing he’d to have to live up to the fighter-pilot image. He was a good pilot, and he knew it. But the partying and carrying-on that went with the fighter-pilot mentality just wasn’t his style.

  Ever since he’d turned down fixed-wings, he’d been incessantly told: “Are you out of your ever-lovin’, woman-chasin’, beer-drinkin’, ring-knockin’, one-each-issue, sex-crazed mind? What do you mean, turning down a chance for fighters for a piss-pot helicopter? Are you nuts?!”

  Sure it was crazy—but it was something that, at the time, he just had to do.

  And still he managed to get to the top, albeit through the back door. His only regret was that he never got to fly a “heavy”—a jumbo jet, such as a 787—so that when he retired from the air force he could ease on into a cushy civilian job flying for the airlines.

  But no matter. Here he was: Local boy makes good. He made it to the top without flying fighters.

  He was lucky to be assigned to Edwards straight out of choppers. Sure, it had never happened before; and sure, he’d had trouble transitioning back to fixed-wings from choppers, but who cared? He knew there wasn’t any truth to the story that he was the President’s long-lost cousin. He’d made it here on his own.

  Besides, saving CINCSTRAT’s butt, when STRATCOM’s ubiquitous Airborne Command Post had crashed in the Great Salt Lake, hadn’t hurt his chances for entrance to Test Pilot School either. The general had told him, “I’ll get you anything you want,” when Gould plucked CINCSTRAT from the water.

  So here he was. Number-one honcho on the TAV circuit and being held up on the flight line by some lard-ass, non-rated colonel. Why on earth they’d put a nonpilot in charge of the Flight Test Center still puzzled him. The “new air force” had certainly gone to pot.

  He squinted through the heat toward Base Ops. Still nothing. The motorcade from maintenance was nowhere in sight.

  As he scowled he heard the sound of feet hitting the ground. He wiped a small bead of perspiration that began to gather at his lip and jerked his head toward Base Ops. He said, “It’ll be a while yet; looks like the debrief is going to be delayed.”

  Major Delores Beckman rolled her eyes and leaned against the side of the TAV. Her orange flight suit contrasted with the blackened camouflage painted on the TAV. The camouflage was a compromise settled on by the various generals on the air staff. Exhaustive studies had shown it didn’t matter what you painted on the aircraft; as it turned out, the enemy would either detect the plane by radar or from the glint off the windshield, so it really didn’t make any difference. The camouflage was the result of a two-year pissing contest among the generals, a compromise struck so that no one would lose face.

  Delores crossed her arms over her breasts. “Command Post still insists we stay put until maintenance does their thing. They promised it would be only a few more minutes. Do you want me to go ahead with the post flight?”

  “Sure, I’ll grab the front if you get the back.”

  “Right.”

  Delores sashayed away, the flight suit swaying slightly at the hips—tight around the buttocks, but sagging around the waist, not complimenting her at all.

  Gould shook his head slightly, thinking to himself, I’ve seen worse. Delores perplexed him. Not only was she one of the few women at Edwards that he had failed to get to bed, but she was a superb pilot. It just didn’t seem right: Hot pilots have to be hot in bed, but from all indications, she was not playing the game at all. He tried to take her out a couple of times in the month she’d been there, but she’d let him know in no uncertain terms that they were playing by her rules.

  As a flight examiner, he was in a position to force her hand—flunk her on a check ride in one of the TAV’s—but he was better than that. He didn’t need to fall back on some hooked-up position of flight examiner to get what he wanted. And if she was going to play the game that way—well, he thought, we’ll just see, Miss Delores Beckman—you may be a red-hot pilot, but you’re not going to mess with my head. No ma’am. I’ll play your game and win.

  Gould yanked the checklist out of a zipped top pocket and strode around the front of the TAV. He checked off items as he came to them, ensuring the craft had not sustained damage from its semi ballistic flight.

  He was at the next-to-last item on the checklist when he heard an approaching vehicle. He hastily looked over a pitot tube and the VUHF antenna before scrambling under the TAV’s fuselage to greet two staff cars, a SMART maintenance truck, and a bus that served as the crew van.

  A chubby colonel, his blue short-sleeved uniform shirt untucked in the back and a paunch bulging over his belt, nodded a greeting to Gould. “How ya doing, Major?”

  “Fine, sir.” Gould straightened slightly and halfway forced a salute.

  Colonel Mathin ignored the salute and walked around the TAV, staring up at the scorched fuselage. The craft still emanated heat from its reentry, but it had quickly cooled in the dry air. He patted the low-slung vessel and turned to Gould. “We’re taking her off flight status until we can get her completely checked out. I don’t want any of the other birds to go up until we find the glitch you reported. Which flight controls were you having trouble with?”

  Delores appeared behind Gould and held out a notepad. The colonel grunted a greeting to Delores, ripped the top form off the pad, and studied it. He spoke to no one in particular: “Pitch thrusters.” Then, looking up
at Gould, he said, “I would have thought you had trouble with the new JATO units we installed. There hasn’t been any trouble with the pitch thrusters since we upgraded them last year. What happened?”

  “Well, it wasn’t me, sir—I was the examiner on the flight. Major Beckman was AC. She noticed the sluggish response once we were entering the atmosphere.” He turned to Delores. “Do you want to fill him in?”

  “That’s right, Colonel. We were rounding the top, about one-fifty clicks up, when I couldn’t get a nose-down attitude.”

  Colonel Mathin looked at her from the corner of his eye. “That’s serious. Why didn’t you declare an emergency?”

  “Didn’t have time. I rotated the TAV using the roll thrusters, tweaked the yaws to get us pointing to the right—which was actually “down” by that time—then rolled us around again with the thrusters to get the right attitude.”

  The colonel raised his brows. Gould smiled, wiping the grin from his face as the colonel looked his way. Colonel Mathin said to Gould, “Well, are you going to override her and declare an emergency, Major, or what?”

  Gould thought for a minute. “How long will the TAVs be in the shop, Colonel?”

  “For an emergency, we’ll have to ground the fleet. No telling how long we’d have to keep them there. But if you don’t override her by declaring an emergency, we can only ground this bird until the problem is fixed. Then it’s free to fly again, even if every TAV in the inventory has the same problem. You know the rules, Major.”

  Damn bureaucracy, thought Gould. Shut down the whole friggin’ operation for nothing more than probably a blown fuse. He ran a hand through his hair. “Major Beckman passed her check ride, Colonel. Once she regained control of the TAV there was no need to declare an emergency. I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can add to her report.”

  Mathin reddened. “Very well, Major, but it will be your butt if this happens again.” He nodded curtly to the two and spun around, barking orders to the gaggle of maintenance personnel who had congregated around the trio during their discussion.