Air Battle Force (23 page)

Sooner than you think, Daren thought.

“The Thirty-ninth was the support unit for units deploying to Turkey and the Middle East?”

“Yep.”

“Any operational command experience at all?”

“Not since I was the DCM at the Three-ninety-fourth Wing at Plattsburgh—until they closed the base.”

“Maintenance group commander at a
Reserve
unit?” Long exclaimed. “Did you do any flying?”

“I flew both the RF-111s and the KC-135s based there—”

“Because you had to. Your unit deployed to Turkey and got itself creamed,” Long said. “I learned that unit's history from General Furness. What a goat-fuck that turned out to be. We're all lucky a nuclear war didn't break out.”

All that wasn't exactly true, but Daren didn't correct him.

“What was your last flying assignment?”

“Seven-fifteenth Bomb Squadron.”

“The B-2 stealth bomber squadron at Whiteman?”

“No. The FB-111A. Pease Air Force Base, New Hampshire.”

“The Aardvarks? They retired the FB-111s in . . . in
1992?
” Long said, wide-eyed. “That's the last operational assignment you've had?
Over eleven years ago?
”

Daren shrugged.

“When was the last time you flew?”

“I've kept current.”

“In what—Piper Cubs?”

“Anything I could get my hands on at Andrews and Maxwell—everything from C-37s to T-37s and T-38s, even a couple rides in F-15Bs.”

“So you haven't flown operationally in over eleven years, and you have no operational command experience. Not exactly what I'd call the ideal candidate for command of a bomber squadron. And you're probably the oldest guy on the entire fucking base.”

Prick. “Makes me wonder why they didn't give the command to you, John.”

Long narrowed his gaze at Mace but let the comment slide off him. “I was the ops-group commander of the One-eleventh Bomb Wing,” Long said. “I've already put my time in with the Bones. My skills are better utilized on the wing-command level.”

“The One-eleventh? Sorry to hear about your last predeployment. You've obviously bounced back from being the only Air National Guard wing ever to go non-mission-effective in peacetime.”

Long's nostrils flared angrily. “Where'd you hear that nonsense?”

“You're denying it, John? You're saying it didn't happen?” Long wisely decided not to say anything. “I worked at the secretary of defense's office, remember, John? I prepared weekly briefings for SECDEF on each unit's mission effectiveness. I know everything that happened out in Reno.”

“What happened to my wing in that pre-D had nothing to do with my fliers and everything to do with General McLanahan,” Long retorted. “The fix was in—we were programmed to fail from day one so he could act like he was going to save us, be the big hero, and then snatch us up and drag us off to Tonopah for his big, crazy ideas. We were doing fine before he showed up.”

“Of course. I should know better than to listen to all the things I heard at SECDEF's office about you guys,” Daren said with an evil smile. “What with all the hotdogging, the accidents, the procedure violations—you guys were in fine shape the whole time. What a relief to know that.”

Long blanched. He didn't like the idea of his name's coming up in conversations at the secretary of defense's office.

“Good thing they had you, John.”

Long's jaw tightened at that remark, but he didn't respond. “
This
wing will be fully mission-ready, Colonel—I'll see to that,” he said. “I have my doubts about exactly what your contribution is going to be toward that effort, but I wasn't consulted on the choice of squadron COs.”

“I'm sure you had other wing-command-level decisions to make.”

Long quickly decided to stop the verbal sparring. He wasn't scoring any points at all. “All right. Well, let's get you started.

“The mission of the Fifty-first Bomb Squadron is to equip and deploy the EB-1C Vampire bomber for intercontinental strike, anti-ballistic-missile defense, antisatellite operations, and long-range-reconnaissance missions,” Long began. “Your squadron has twelve EB-1C Vampire bombers in the Pit.” Most everyone called the underground hangar complex the “Lair,” which Daren thought sounded much cooler than the “Pit”—it was no surprise to Daren that Long called it something less flattering. “Normally we're able to keep nine to ten operational and one in training status, but frankly, our maintenance guys need a swift kick in the ass sometimes to keep them up to speed.”

“I used to be a maintenance-group commander,” Daren reminded him. “And I know that no one responds well to ‘a swift kick in the ass,' especially maintenance techs.”

“You motivate your troops the way you see fit, Colonel,” Long said. “You do whatever it takes to get the job done.”

“Yes, sir,” Daren said. “I see no reason we can't keep the training birds mission-ready at the same time. We'll figure out a way.”

“One reason might be the rotary launchers,” Long said. “Since rotary launchers are maintenance-intensive, we generally don't upload them in the training birds.”

“I'll have RLs in every bird on the line, training or not, loaded or not,” Daren said. “RLs need to be used. The bearings in those things are designed to rotate twenty thousand pounds of weapons at ten rpms at minus fifty degrees Fahrenheit at up to nine Gs. They like to be exercised frequently, or they get cranky.”

“It puts the squadrons at a great disadvantage if we end up with a broken rotary launcher,” Long said with growing irritation. “We run the risk of going non-mission-ready if a sortie goes down because we can't use an RL. We will not use them unless absolutely necessary.”

“That's why they break down, John,” Daren repeated. He noticed that Long bristled when he used his first name, but, hey, screw him—there was an unwritten code about officers of the same rank not calling each other “sir,” even if one was your boss. “If you want RLs that work, you put them in the planes, hook them up to power, hydraulics, and air, fly them, and use them. Every mission. Without fail. From now on.”

“Hey, Colonel, how about we do it
my
way until you're up to speed?” Long asked pointedly.

“Whatever you say, John,” Daren responded.

Long gave Mace a warning glare, then, in an effort to defuse the tension between them, said, “In my opinion it's hard to motivate guys who work eighty feet underground. Why McLanahan chose to build the aircraft shelters underground, I'll never figure out. For what he spent on that complex, we could've fielded five more planes.”

“I did some research on this complex, John,” Daren said. “McLanahan didn't build it.”

“What? Of course he did. It's been under construction for the past three years—”

“The big runway and all the high-tech gadgets, yes,” Daren said. “But the underground complex was actually built about
fifty
years ago. It was first created as an underground ‘doomsday' shelter, designed to house almost two thousand civilians plus an F-101 fighter-bomber squadron. It's been used in various ways since then: as a classified-weapon research center, as a nuclear-weapon storage facility, even as an emergency Strategic Petroleum Reserve storage facility. Before McLanahan got the funding to turn it into an air base, Battle Mountain was the Federal Emergency Management Agency's national civil command center for the western U.S.—”

“Whatever,”
Long interrupted. “It's a stupid place for an airfield. That's my bottom line. Let's move on. We've had a lot of success with the EB-1C, and we'd like to maintain our string of successes. Unfortunately, General McLanahan's recent mishap hasn't helped our mission-effectiveness record.”

“The crash in Diego Garcia?” Daren asked. “I remember something about it in the news.”

“The mission was a disaster, we were embarrassed, we lost two unmanned drones and nearly lost a B-1 bomber, and we still don't know exactly what happened,” Long said angrily. “But instead of getting his ass chewed out, characteristically, General McLanahan is treated like the conquering hero. He nearly closed down America's most important Asian air base and disregarded orders that came from the Pentagon.”

“He saved his plane and his crew,” Daren observed. “Crew prerogative—do whatever it takes to save your people and your aircraft. Who cares if it caused a mess on some ramp in Diego Garcia?”

“General Furness saved the aircraft. It was probably McLanahan who pushed to keep on going with the mission.”

“An operational test is still an operational mission—it just means the unit isn't mission-ready,” Daren pointed out. “I'm sure the
crew
was responsible for bringing their plane back in more or less one piece.”

“Apparently the Pentagon saw it the same way,” Long grumbled. He handed Daren a sheet of paper.

“What's this?” Daren asked.

“What's it look like, Colonel? Bold-print malfunction-procedures test. Required before every flight. Closed-book and solo effort. It needs to be one hundred percent correct, word for word, or you don't fly. Turn it in before you step.”

“I didn't know there was going to be a test first,” Daren commented softly. He looked at the test—it was twice as long as any bold-print test he ever remembered having to take. “I haven't had much time to study this stuff yet, John.”

Long eyed the new squadron commander with a look of disgust. “Then maybe you shouldn't be flying right away, Mace,” he said. “Maybe you need to get into the books a little more.”

Daren did not respond. He
knew
he needed to get back into the tech orders, especially on this new aircraft, but he badly wanted to get back into the air. He didn't want to spend three months in academics, just watching the rest of his squadron flying without him.

Long shook his head, then shrugged his shoulders. “But the boss wants you flying as soon as possible, so I guess we're going flying anyway,” he said. “Get together with your instructor pilot and complete the test before you step.”

“You got it.”

“I've built a qualification course for you and the other newbies in your squadron. You'll start the flying phase of that course today.”

“I appreciate that, John, but I think getting
me
stick time in these planes is a waste of
everyone's
time,” Daren said. “It seems to me that I was hired for some other reason than to be a flying squadron commander. I need to know how they work, not how to fly them. General McLanahan has hinted about doing some special engineering mods to the fleet. I think I'd better be—”

“Colonel, again, how about we do it
my
way until you're up to speed out here?” Long asked irritably. “We've got you scheduled for several meetings with the folks from Sky Masters Inc. and the engineers at the Tonopah Test Range. You'll get a briefing on the current project status and the completion timelines. Your job will be to ensure that they all meet the milestones—or give me a damned good reason why they missed it.”

“I got a copy of the project timelines from the general. I think we can beat those deadlines,” Daren said. “We should think about bringing the engineering staff from TTR up here.”

“As I'm sure you've noticed, there's no place on this base for a one-hundred-person engineering staff,” Long said. “It's easier for us to bring the planes to TTR than it is to bring everyone up here.”

“Nah. I made visiting generals and heads of state stay in tents and trailers at Incirlik all the time—the engineers from TTR and Sky Masters can do the same. We're the customer—they can do it our way. I should be studying the mission profiles and weapon characteristics and—”

“If you're not completely checked out as a primary crew member, Mace, you can't even
look
at my aircraft,” Long said sharply. “It's as simple as that. I'm not going to let any unqualified personnel near my planes. And since we're the only unit that flies the EB-1C and there's no lead-in school, I designed the training program that has been approved by the Air Force. You will follow it to the letter or you will
get out
of my wing. This wing will not go mission-ineffective because someone hasn't done the basics.”

“I'll take responsibility for the mission-effectiveness of myself, my crews, and my planes,” Daren said firmly. “Believe me, I know what I'm talking about.”

He then handed Long a sheet of paper: the completed bold-print emergency-procedures test. He'd done it so quickly that Long didn't even notice he was filling it out as they were talking. Long checked it carefully, but he needed only a moment to realize it was perfect—every word, even every punctuation mark, exactly in place.

“I may not have any command experience, Colonel,” Daren added, looking directly into Long's eyes, “but I guarantee you one thing: I know systems. I eat, sleep, and dream systems. I read tech orders in the fucking bathroom.”

Long met his gaze—but only for an instant. He looked away and remarked, “Now, there's an image I'd rather not have.” He crumpled up the test and threw it in the direction of a nearby wastebasket. “I've got your instructor pilot coming by soon.” He looked at his watch. “Grey better not be late,” he grumbled under his breath.

“Sorry I'm late, sirs,” Daren heard a voice say. He turned—and saw what looked like the youngest crew member in a flight suit he'd ever seen. The guy—kid, Daren thought at first, then corrected himself—set his documents bag on the dais, then quickly extracted some paperwork.

“Make us wait again, Grey, and you'll be ramp monkey for another week,” Long warned. Apparently, Daren thought, around here being ten minutes early for a briefing was considered late. Long motioned to the young officer. “Colonel, this is First Lieutenant Dean Grey. Grey, Colonel Mace, your new squadron CO.”