To Slip the Surly Bonds

by Chris Kennedy

  He had just taken a second mark when Captain Taylor stumbled into the conn, rubbing his face. “Whatcha got, COB?”

  “Two rafts. They’re drifting down on us. Range 800.” He stepped away from the periscope and said, “Bearing about 239.”

  The captain hooked his forearms over the scope handles, made a quick full sweep, then a second, and finally turned to the heading. “Yep, looks like two rafts. Shall we offer them a ride?” he asked rhetorically.

  The COB almost choked trying to keep from laughing as the XO ran into the conn. “XO, you have the conn. Let’s get up on the roof and see if these guys want a lift home. Muster the rescue party, and get them ready, if you will.”

  He felt the deck tilt as he hurried back to his stateroom, grabbing his float-coat off the back of the door. He started back out, then reached back and crammed his ball cap on his head. Five minutes later, he stood on the bridge, bull horn in hand, as he conned the sub between the two rafts, catching the line between them on the conning tower. He turned to the talker, “All stop. Rescue party on deck, please.” He clicked on the bull horn and cleared his throat. “Ah, gentlemen in the rafts, may I have your attention.” A couple of heads popped out, and he smiled as he continued, “We were in the neighborhood and wondered if you might like a ride.”

  * * *

  June 9, 1985

  Kings Bay, Georgia 0300Z

  The tugs nestled the USS Michigan up to her berth at the pier, and the brow was swung over and fastened into place. Rear Admiral Owens, the submarine squadron commander, closely followed by three other officers, came up the brow and stepped onboard before the watch had a chance to challenge them. Rear Admiral Owens told the top side watch, “Gents, this boat is on lockdown. Nobody on or off until you are released. Speak to no one and don’t announce us. Understood?”

  The three watch standers came to attention and said in chorus, “Yes, sir.” As the officers passed, one of the watch standers whispered to another, “Did you see that middle guy? How many stars did he have, three, or four?”

  The second watch stander shook his head, “Don’t know and ain’t asking.”

  The four went down the ladder and into the passageway, marching forward much to the surprise of the sailors on the ship. A ripple of “Attention on deck,” was passed forward as they advanced on the conn.

  Captain Thomas was surprised to see Rear Admiral Owens step into the conn, and even more surprised when Vice Admiral Mark Kalenberg stepped in. The VCNO nodded. “Admiral Owens has a brief for you and the crew. Where are the aviators?”

  “They’re all in the wardroom, Admiral. XO, would you escort the admiral, please?”

  As they stepped into the wardroom, KJ looked up and called, “Attention on deck!”

  The crew was rising when the VCNO said, “At ease, keep your seats. Gentlemen, I’ll make this short and to the point. You were injured by a freak wave while you were onboard a fishing boat off Brunswick. You were brought here for medical treatment. Your luggage is here. Your TAD never happened, you left Patuxent River, flew to NAS Jacksonville and broke the airplane.” He turned to his flag aide, who handed him thirteen pink sheets. “Take one, pass them around and sign them. You know what they are. Unofficially, you did a helluva job, even if all the Soviet subs made it back to port. Officially,” he shrugged. “Nothing ever happened.”

  Chief Clark muttered, “Didn’t think so. The explosions were all time outs then. Dammit.”

  Dusty asked, “So, even though we got a MiG, we don’t get to paint a silhouette on a P-3, sir?”

  The admiral laughed as the flag aide looked at Dusty in horror. “No son. You don’t. Not even on a model. Ever.”

  * * * * *

  JL Curtis Bio

  JL Curtis was born in Louisiana and raised in the Ark-La-Tex area. He began his education with guns at age eight with a SAA and a Grandfather that had carried one for ‘work’. He began competitive shooting in the 1970s, an interest he still pursues, time permitting. He is a retired Naval Flight Officer, having spent 21 years serving his country, an NRA instructor, and a retired engineer who escaped the defense industry. He lives in North Texas and is now writing full time, with two series, The Grey Man and Rimworld published. Find him at his blog: http://oldnfo.org.

  # # # # #

  Per Ardua Ad Astra by Jan Niemczyk

  7 May 2005. Thorpe on the Hill, Lincolnshire, England.

  ‘When Saturday the 7th of May dawned, it was Day 15 of World War Three; it was also Day 22 after mobilisation. Fatigue was beginning to set in on both sides. Today it is not particularly remembered; it was neither a “Hardest Day,” nor a “Battle of Britain Day,” like the battles of the Last War. It was simply “Another Day at the Office” for the men and women assigned to the defence of the UK, and while the day might not have been remembered or marked as being historic, it would be long remembered by most of those who were there.’

  ‘Extract from ‘The Aerial Conflict over the United Kingdom and Republic of Ireland, Volume IV of the Official History of the Third World War (Government Official History Series), (London 2020), by Marshal of the Royal Air Force Lord Foster of High Wycombe, RAF (Retired) and Dr Lawrence Marksman.

  * * *

  David ‘Gambo’ Gambon, husband, father, Squadron Leader in No. 615 (County of Surrey ‘Churchill’s Own’) Squadron, rolled over in the bed of the budget travel hotel. It took a moment for him to realise he was not in his Haslemere home lying next to his wife Roberta.

  If I was going to spend a night away from my wife in a hotel, I’d have hoped for better circumstances than this. The hotel had been requisitioned by the RAF a week ago, after the Soviets had bombed the housing areas of a number of RAF Stations. Gambon was of the opinion that the action should have been taken a long time ago, rather than requiring several dozen dead to be implemented.

  Stupid bean counters will be the death of us all, he thought, stretching and heading into the latrine for his morning routine. Gambon was the tactical director of a Sentry AEW.1 crew, meaning he was the senior man aboard the aircraft. He also was the Officer Commanding A Flight, No. 615 Squadron, a Royal Auxiliary Air Force (RAuxAF) unit that provided additional air and ground crew for the RAF’s Sentry force. As an auxiliary, No. 615 had no aircraft of its own, although No. 8 Squadron had been kind enough to paint one of their Sentries’ port side with the markings of 615.

  Regulars sure have been a lot kinder to us than I expected, Gambon thought as he began shaving. Might be because the fighter boys have gotten them used to part timers. While 615 Squadron did not have aircraft of its own, most of the other RAuxAF flying squadrons that had re-appeared during the late 1990s as part of the strengthening of Britain’s defences did. That included seven of No. 11 (Fighter) Group’s seventeen interceptor and fighter squadrons—their Tornado F.3s flown and maintained by volunteers. As the Americans had proven in the ‘70s and ‘80s, the old argument that part-timers could not operate sophisticated jet aircraft had just not held up to reality. The RAF had been glad to realise the cost savings involved.

  Only reason we’re still in the war, Gambon thought grimly. Would not have been enough fighters to go around otherwise. With that sobering thought, he headed down to get himself breakfast.

  * * *

  “Wakey, wakey, everybody!” A gruff RAFP corporal stated from the front of the coach. It seemed like only a couple of seconds after Gambon had closed his eyes after boarding the vehicle in front of the hotel. “Have your passes ready for inspection!”

  Bloody hell. Twenty-minutes gets shorter and shorter every day, Gambon thought, looking around the shuttle from the hotel. Getting his bearings, he began to rummage through the pockets of his flight suit. Outside his window, other RAFP Snowdrops inspected the vehicle while being covered by the rifles of RAF Regiment Gunners.

  I doubt we’d get hijacked in eight miles, but better to be safe than sorry, Gambon thought. He looked at the police escort, who were waiting just outside of the base’s gate to resume escorti
ng the coach when it returned with the outgoing Sentry crews.

  Then again, if they get past all of those police, then a few gate guards probably won’t even slow them down. Gambon handed over his pass while hoping that disquieting thought didn’t show on his face.

  * * *

  “I really wish they’d properly disposed of ‘108, Flight,” Gambon observed, gesturing towards a burnt-out aircraft through the crew bus window. “Hardly conducive to our morale.”

  The Sentry that bore the serial number ZH108 had been destroyed in a Soviet air raid a week ago. Its burned-out carcass had been bulldozed onto a patch of grass between the main hardstand and a taxiway, where it was still visible to all. Thankfully, the RAF had enough foresight to disperse its seven precious Sentries around the UK, so only a couple had been on the ground at Waddington when it had been attacked.

  “At least nobody was killed aboard her, sir.” Flight Sergeant Max Phillips replied as the crew bus pulled up to Sentry ZH107. “Shame to lose her though; always thought she was amongst the best of the bunch.”

  Forty-five minutes later, ZH107 was climbing to take her position over the North Sea. Gambon listened as the flight crew began coordinating with the Tristar tanker that would top off her tanks.

  It’s going to be a long day.

  * * *

  RAF Leuchars, Fife, Scotland.

  Wing Commander John ‘Jack’ Foster, RAF, Commanding Officer of No. 43 (Fighter) Squadron, tried to focus on shaving rather than his imminent duties that day.

  I’d rather face a flight of Flankers than this lot, he thought. The Ministry of Defence had authorised a group press visit in the hope of getting some good, morale-raising coverage that could also be used in the propaganda war.

  Here’s to hoping it will at least be partially successful, Foster thought uncharitably. He’d never been a big fan of the media. If the correspondent wasn’t a blithering airhead who had never served, they were generally officers who had retired so long ago they considered the Hawker Hunter to have been the apex of modern fighter technology.

  If I’d known making ace would lead to this, I might have let that last Fencer get away. Air Commodore Forbes-Hamilton—the station commander—had insisted that, as the RAF’s first modern ace, he should be the one to show around the print and television reporters. At least some of the print journalists were from aviation magazines, which meant they should know what they were talking about. Well, apart from a few individuals who still wrote of the Tornado F.3 as if it was the same aircraft that had first been delivered to the Air Force in 1985.

  “Ow! Bugger!” he said, the thought of the latter idiots having apparently led to him pressing a little too hard on the razor. The Tornado pilots had been fed up with ‘professional’ aviation journalists calling their aircraft ‘inadequate,’ or at best ‘barely adequate for the task’ prior to the conflict. In the twenty years since the Tornado F.3 had entered service, it had virtually become a different aircraft, capable of standing up to the best fighters in the world.

  Some people don’t keep up with the times, he thought, dabbing at the blood welling up from his chin.

  * * *

  43 Squadron’s crew room was a different place than it had been a few hours ago. Located in the hardened Squadron Headquarters, it was usually full of pizza boxes and detritus from takeaway ordered from local restaurants.

  Thank goodness they got the ‘lad’ and ‘ladette’ magazines out, he thought, looking at the magazine rack located between the crew couches. In their place were a number of aviation magazines, a few copies of RAF News and the latest editions of the newspapers the print journalists wrote for. Pictures on the walls of scantily clad persons of both genders had been replaced by aviation prints and aircraft recognition pictures.

  “Because they could be scrambled at any time, I’m afraid I can’t introduce you to the aircrew on alert, but I can let you speak to others who are off duty at the moment,” Foster told the journalists. “They should be happy enough to answer any questions you have for them.”

  “Before we start, Wing Commander, can I ask how it feels to be the RAF’s first ace since the Last War?”

  “It’s an honour; however, it’s one I share with my navigator, Squadron Leader Wilkinson.” Foster replied. “It was also very much a team effort. Without the ground crew, my Tornado could never have gotten off the ground in the first place, and without those working in the radar stations and AWACS aircraft, we would never have been able to find our targets.”

  Foster paused to give some of the reporters time to scribble down what he was saying.

  “I’m very much a cog in a much larger machine. I also hope you’ll remember that there are a lot of aircrew out there doing the same job as me, I’m not anything special,” Foster said.

  “Can I ask how your aircrew feel about flying an aircraft considered inferior to enemy aircraft?”

  There was a rustle of paper and clicking of cameras as Foster turned to look at the questioner. Foster recognised the questioner as the defence correspondent of a national newspaper, a man called Mel Rippert. He was renowned for his opinionated and critical articles on UK defence procurement; the last one Foster could recall had suggested the Typhoon was a waste of money, and the RAF should have bought the Super Hornet instead. Buying American was something of a theme for him, and Foster often wondered if he was paid by the US defence industry to promote their products and rubbish their British and European rivals.

  Foster thought uncharitably as he fixed the man with a hard gaze. After a few awkward moments of silence, the man broke eye contact.

  “The Tornado F.3 is in no way inferior to any enemy aircraft we can expect to encounter,” Foster said, his tone precise. “Indeed, last year at an exercise in Nevada, crews from this squadron and Treble One racked up a kill ratio of twelve-to-one against American aggressor squadrons simulating Soviet fighters.” Foster replied.

  “Yes, but the F.3 can’t dog-fight in the same way as American aircraft like the Hornet, or Russian ones like the MiG-29,” Rippert persisted, as if he had not heard Foster’s previous answer.

  Foster gave the man a thin smile.

  “Our main enemies are cruise missiles, and Backfire and Fencer bombers, none of which are agile enemies. However, we have fought several successful engagements with Su-27 Flankers. I’m sure you saw in the briefing packet that I’ve killed two and my squadron has downed eighteen total.”

  Foster paused, his look making it clear he was expecting a response. When the correspondent murmured something, Foster moved on.

  “Yes, the F.3 is not a traditional agile fighter aircraft; it is an interceptor. Moreover, in my opinion, when you are armed with weapons like the AMRAAM and ASRAAM, you have done something wrong if you are forced into a dog-fight.”

  He swept over the gathered audience, then went in for the finish. “This is 2005, not 1940; we like to kill our enemy before he can see us or knows we are there. Our tactics essentially make the agility of an enemy irrelevant.”

  The journalist did not look happy with the answer, principally because it did not fit his preconceptions. He was about to make another point when one of his colleagues jumped in first.

  “If I may ask a question, how do the female aircrew cope with living in a male-dominated environment?” she asked.

  Oh Lord, not this again.

  “Perhaps I’m not the best person to answer that, after all, I have the wrong equipment,” Foster replied. A few of the journalists—but not the questioner—chuckled.

  No sense of humour in some people.

  “However, I have always been of the opinion that there are only two kinds of aircrew in this squadron—pilots and navigators, or Weapon Systems Operators as we are now supposed to call them. Neither aircraft, nor weapons, care whether someone keeps their reproductive equipment on the inside, or outside.”

  He looked up to see two of his squadron mates’ faces fixed with thin smiles.

  They hate these questions as much
as I do, he thought. Sorry Bubbles and Mamba.

  “I’m sure that any of our female aircrew will be happy to share their experiences with you. Now are there any more questions before I pass you on?”

  A journalist from a tabloid put up his hand.

  “I wonder if I might ask a couple of personal questions, Wing Commander? It’s just that our readers would like to know a bit more about the people behind the uniform.”

  “Ask away. I don’t guarantee to answer if it’s a bit too personal,” Foster said with a grin.

  “Can I ask if you are married?”

  “Not yet, but I am engaged.”

  “How does your fiancée feel about your job?”

  “Well…at the moment, she’s eating her heart out with jealousy.” Foster said laughing. “She’s also a pilot, though at the moment she’s on a ground posting because of a back injury she got during an ejection.”

  There was a slight murmur of sympathy from the gathered journalists.

  You’d be more sympathetic if you knew how much fun it is dealing with the cross between a cornered wild cat and disturbed wasp nest at home, Foster thought.

  “She’s a better pilot than me, and I’m pretty sure she would have made ace well before I did if given the opportunity.”

  Once again, he paused as the reporters wrote this information down. He looked at his watch.

  “Given the time, I’ll let you loose on the aircrew, because I’m pretty sure you’ve heard enough of my voice.” Foster paused for a moment just in case there were any questions. “Good, let me know when you are done, or if you have any trouble.”

  Foster sighed in relief once the journalists had dispersed to seek new victims. He knew full well his aircrew had been dreading this visit.