Semi-OT: Red Dawn fan fic

[Matt Wiser]

Thanks, gents. How many caught the shout-outs?

[Matt Wiser]

And the next one, in two parts. It's more T2K-ish:

Out of the Mountains



1420 Hours Mountain Time: 8 May 1986; The San Isabel National Forest, Northwest of Walsenberg, Colorado:


It wasn't much to look at, but to the camp's occupants, it was home. Sort of, anyway. Several parachutes had been converted into tents, and others had made shelters out of pine boughs and branches, just like what the survival school instructors had taught. For the camp's military and guerrilla occupants, it had been enough, though higher up in altitude was a camp that was more secure. At that camp were wounded guerillas, families who had fled the Soviet-bloc invasion, and even some hikers who'd been up in the high country, and had been shocked to find that the worst had happened, and the Russians had come.

To the military personnel there, though they had helped the guerillas the best they could, all were anxious to get to the other side of the Rockies as soon as the weather and melting snow permitted. Of the camp's fourteen military personnel, a dozen were downed aircrew members from all four services, and the other two were escaped POWs. The rumor mill had said that there were Army troops somewhere to the northwest, along U.S. Highway 50, and all were hoping to get there, find friendly troops, and somehow, get back to their squadrons and back in the air.

For Air Force Lieutenants Matt Wiser and Tony Carpenter, five months with the Resistance was more than enough. They had been shot down in their F-4 near Walsenberg, to the southeast, back in January, and had been lucky enough to find a rural church, where the preacher was willing to hide them in a tornado shelter. Then they'd been passed along to the Sheppard Ranch, west of Walsenberg proper, where the family had sheltered them for a few days, until their eldest daughter Lori could take them into the mountains. They had been in the mountains all of two days when Lori came back, tears running down her face. After they'd left, the Soviets had come to the ranch. Someone, somewhere, had either been caught and broken, or the escape line had been betrayed. Lori had ridden down from the Mountains to find the ranch house and barn burned to the ground, the animals taken away, and in the driveway, the bodies of her parents, younger brother, and younger sister. All had been shot in the back of the head, and both her mother and sister had been.....used, so to speak, by the Russians before they had been killed. She had buried her family, and ridden back into the hills, and bringing with her a desire for revenge.

Over the past few months, the guerillas had made themselves known to the Russians and their Cuban and Nicaraguan lackeys, ambushing convoys, raiding outposts, cutting phone lines, and so on. Not only had they lived off the land, but also off of the enemy, taking whatever they could find, whether it was food, weapons, ammo, medical supplies, or whatever. But now, with the spring melt, Lori knew that she needed to do two things: first, get the downed pilots over the Rockies to friendly lines, and second, see if the rumors were true, and that there were Special Forces teams helping guerrilla bands with supplies, advisors, and so much else. For up in the high country there was a family camp, with refugees who'd fled into the hills, some family members of guerrillas, some escapees from labor or “re-education” camps, people who really needed to be on the other side.

Lori gathered the downed pilots around a campfire. All were dirty, grubby, and showed the effects of living in the wilderness. But all had taken part in raids against the invaders, even if the two Marines and the single Army aviator had any kind of infantry training. They had gotten to be good at it, the hard way. “OK, good news. Mike Jensen just rode down from the Family Camp. They say the snow melt's made a trip over the pass a lot easier. So we're leaving today.”

“About time, Lori,” Major Mark Adams said. He was one of the two Marines there: an A-6 driver who'd gone down the same time as the two F-4 crewers. He'd been in unofficial command, though he deferred to Lori, as she was the leader of the band. But he was the senior ranking military officer there.
He, like the other military evadees, had his flight suit, but worn over that was a Soviet airborne camo outfit, and then on top of that was a Soviet winter camo suit. And given how cold it got at night this high up, everyone was glad to have the multiple layers of clothing.

“I'll second that,” Capt. Bill Andrews quipped. A former member of the Thunderbirds, he had been shot down the previous December, and had escaped from the Cubans after a week in their custody. Given what he saw during his brief captivity, he had no qualms about killing Russians or Cubans, period.

“How far to friendlies?” Lieutenant Wiser asked.

“Good question,” Adams said. “Best guess it that it'll take a week or so. On foot the whole way.”

“Lovely,” Tony Carpenter said. “At least we'll get out of here and back to our units. If I wanted to be SF, I would've joined the Army.”

Adams nodded. He knew the feeling. Even though he'd been trained as an infantry officer before going to flight school, being a grunt was the last thing he expected. “Any other questions?” There weren't any. “That's it, then. Grab your weapons, get your gear, and we're gone.”

The two AF Lieutenants went to their tent. Though they had buried their chutes after bailout, they had found chutes belonging to downed pilots who hadn't survived: a parachute landing in the forest was a dicey proposition, and several airmen had died in their landings. The two gathered up their tent, and picked up their rifles. Both had AKMs, but Wiser also had an AK-74 that he'd picked up off a dead Soviet recon trooper, and wanted to keep it as a souvenir. Tony Carpenter also had a war trophy he wanted to keep: an SVD sniper rifle that he'd killed a Cuban to get. Like the others, they had made homemade packs from parachute harnesses, just like they'd been taught in SERE.

The party made their last-minute checks. For food, they had home-made deer or elk jerky, and some civilian canned goods that they had found when cleaning up a supply convoy they had ambushed. However much they had, it would have to last a week.

It wouldn't just be the evadees going out: Lori was coming with them. Not only as a guide, but she wanted to find out for herself if the rumors were true, and there were SF operating in the area. Not only did she want an SF Team to come into the area, with weapons, ammo, food, and above all, medical supplies, but to evacuate the family camp. That place had been an old logging camp in the 1920s, and though the civilians and others hiding there had food and shelter, they really needed to be evacuated. Not to mention that their doctor, who prewar had been a dermatologist from Denver, was really in over his head for the most part. He'd been on a hiking trip when the invasion happened, and the only medical supplies he had were what had been “acquired” after an ambush. If a helicopter pickup to get the civilians out could be arranged, she was all for it, and was eager to get going. She not only had an AKMS rifle, but she also had a Winchester Model 70, and that .270 slug could take down just about anything: and they had seen just how good a shot Lori was. Not only had she shot some deer or elk, but in raids, she used that rifle as a sniper rifle, and Lori had killed her fair share of Russians and Cubans with the weapon.

The evadees and a few guerrillas who'd be coming along were all set to go, and a few minutes later, Lori and Major Adams came up. “Everybody set?” Lori asked. Though Adams was the senior military officer, she ran the guerrillas, and was in charge. “OK, let's go.”


Somewhere in the Rockies: 10 May 1986: 0730 Mountain Time

The first day and night had passed quietly for the most part, though most of the evadees were too keyed up to sleep. The prospect of freedom, and being able to climb back into a cockpit, meant that hardly anyone got more than four hours' sleep. As for breakfast, some Elk jerky and a raw pop tart, along with a canteen of water, had to do.

“Another week of this,” Tony Carpenter grumbled. “And I'm an outdoors type.”

Lieutenant Wiser looked at his WSO. “Where?”

“Oregon. Some little town between Salem and the Cascades. Got an appointment to the Academy, which kept me from being a logger, and look where I am now.”

“Let me guess: a lot of hunting and fishing?” Wiser asked.

“Yep. Never thought all of that would come back.” Carpenter said.

“You must've breezed through the field portion of SERE.”

“I did. And the instructors didn't like that at all.”

Major Adams came up. “All right, people, fill your canteens from the spring, and let's get going. If anyone gets winded, call out. We're getting into higher elevation today.”

There was the usual grumbling, but everyone got ready, and moved out. Lori wanted to bypass the family camp, and Adams had agreed wholeheartedly. If anyone was following them, best to stay away.

Five hours later, there was a break. As they got higher up, there was still snow on the ground, though it was patchy. Some places still had several inches of snow on the ground, while others, more exposed to the sun, had spring plants in full bloom. But there was one thing everyone was noticing: the lack of forest sounds. It was quiet. Lori, for all her time in the woods prewar, had never experienced anything like this, and neither had Tony Carpenter, or the other guerrillas. “I don't like this, Major,” she said.

“Neither do I.” Adams agreed. He motioned to Army WO Kyle Lewis. “Drop back about a hundred yards, and bring up the rear. See if anyone's following us. Take one of the guerrillas with you.”

“Gotcha, Major,” the UH-1 pilot said. He'd been an enlisted solider for five years before going to Fort Rucker and getting his wings as a Warrant Officer. Not to mention that he was Ranger qualified, and that experience had come in very handy, not just in teaching ground tactics to the guerrillas and most of the airmen, but in combat.
Adams then turned to his B/N, First Lieutenant Neal Brandon. “Neil, take point.”

He nodded, and headed on out. After he'd gone about fifty yards, the rest of the group followed.

A couple hours later, Lori called a halt. Neal had found nothing up ahead, but he couldn't shake a feeling that they were being watched. Major Adams felt the same way, along with Lori, and for that matter, everyone else. Someone was watching them, but who? If it was Spetsnatz, they might be following them until they made camp, then attack. “Two hours of daylight left.” Adams said. “We'd better find a spot to make camp.”

After a half-hour of searching, the party found a nice campsite, only a hundred yards or so from a small lake. After getting a fire going, and boiling some drinking water, everyone sat down to eat. The canned goods that the ComBloc had looted came in handy, for canned beef stew, pork and beans, or raviolis had to make do. But as the party ate, everyone still had the sinking feeling that someone was watching them.

“Major, I think we'd better have a patrol-just to look around,” Lori said to Major Adams.

“I think you're right,” Adams agreed. “Guru, Neal, Tony.”

Wiser's head shot up. Guru was his call sign. “Major?”

“You three, have a look around. No further than a thousand yards. Check around the lake, and down the trail. If you find anyone, fire a few shots into the air, and try and hold 'em. We'll be there ASAP.”

“Will do, Major,” Guru said. Brandon was the Marine, so he led the little patrol. They checked out the lake, and went back down the trail. They found nothing, but still.....the hair stood up on the backs of all three. Something was in the forest, off the trail somewhere, and watching them. They saw nothing, and returned to camp just as twilight was coming.

“What'd you find?” Lori asked. Major Adams was with her.

“Nothing,” Neal Brandon said. “We checked around the lake, no tracks, other than animals. They were old, by the way.” He went on, “And we went down the trail a ways. Didn't see anything, but....”

“But what, Lieutenant?” Adams asked.

“But, Major,” Guru said. “Something's there, because we all felt like we were being watched. And my hair stood up on the back of my neck.” And the other two nodded affirmatively.

“Mountain Lion, maybe?” Adams wondered aloud.

“Could be, and the other animals know there's a predator around, so that's why they're quiet,” Lori commented. “Major,if there is a big cat nearby, we'd better have two or three on watch, instead of one.”

“Agreed. Two on watch at all times. I'll take the first, with Neal.”


That night, everyone went to sleep-or tried to, anyway. The possibility of a mountain lion or a bobcat coming into camp had everyone nervous. Spetsnatz or other Soviets, they could deal with. But a big cat coming in and trying to drag one of them off? That was something else entirely. Even if one was sleeping in a parachute tent or just spread the chute on the ground, no one went to sleep without weapons close at hand. There being a full moon didn't help one's nerves any, for a shadow in the moonlight could be an enemy-or a big cat looking for a meal.

Guru had taken the 10-to-12 watch, along with Tony, and they had turned things over to Capt. Mark Bailey, an AF F-16 pilot from the 388th at Hill, and Joel Wambach, one of the guerrillas. The two F-4 crewmen then went into their tent, and after checking for snakes, went to sleep.

It was just after 0300 when it happened. The two on watch, one of the ex-POWs and a guerrilla, were sitting by the fire, trying to stay warm in the cold night air, when one of them heard something. They were footsteps-big ones. The two decided not to wake anyone, and simply waited by the fire for the intruder-whoever or whatever it was, to go away.

In their tent, Guru and Tony were sleeping when Tony suddenly woke up. He shook his pilot awake. “Guru, wake up!” Carpenter hissed.

“Huh,? What?” Guru said, “Tony, what the...”

“Something's out there,” he said. “Smell that?”

“I don't...wait. Now I do. Rotten-egg smell?”

“Yeah.”

Then the two felt footsteps on the ground. Big ones. “What the hell...” Guru said. He poked his head out the tent, and saw the two on watch huddled around the fire, looking very afraid. Then they got up and slipped behind the tent Major Andrews and Neal Brandon shared. Then he-and Tony-saw it.

In the moonlight, and the firelight, a large shape came walking into the camp. In the moonlight, they couldn't see much, but the creature, whatever it was, was at least eight feet tall. It strode into camp, and started looking around. It found Lori's tent-a prewar dome-style camping tent, and seemed to be looking inside. Then a tent flap opened, and two of their fellow airmen looked out. And Guru heard safeties being clicked off. “Oh, shit!'” He whispered to Tony, reaching for his own AKM.

Before anyone could shoot, Lori woke up and saw the huge shadow looming over her tent. She didn't make a sound, but reached for the first weapon she could-her Winchester rifle, and took the safety off. Then all hell broke loose as Neal Brandon came out of his tent and saw the creature looming over Lori's tent. “The hell is that?” Then the shooting started.

Nobody remembered who started firing, but once someone started to fire, everyone did. The creature turned and ran off towards the lake, waving its arms as if to repel a swarm of bees, as shots flew all around it. Even after the creature was out of sight, there was still shooting. “CEASE FIRE! CEASE FIRE!” Adams yelled.

“What the hell was that?” Several people asked at once.

Tony Carpenter knew, or thought he did. “If we were in the Pacific Northwest, I'd say that was a Bigfoot.”

“Well, we aren't in the Pacific Northwest,” Lori Sheppard quipped. “And that sure as hell looked like a Bigfoot.”

Mike Jensen, one of the guerrillas, nodded. “They call it the Snowbeast. At least that's what I heard before the war. He's our Bigfoot. And he's a lot bigger and meaner than the one in the Northwest.”

“Snowbeast or Bigfoot, or whatever that...thing was,” Adams said, “Soon as we can after first light, we're getting the hell out of here. No telling who heard all that shooting.”

The party had passed a sleepless rest of the night. As dawn broke, two of them went to the lake with a couple of buckets to get water to boil to fill their canteens with, while everyone else was busy breaking camp. The two returned with the water, but were shaken. They had found tracks by the shoreline-big ones. Eighteen inches long, they thought, and very deep. “I'll take your word for it,” Andrews said. “Let's get that water boiled, and eat. Then we're getting out of here.”



14 May 1986: 1400 Mountain Time:



Three days had passed since the encounter with, whatever that beast had been, and everyone had settled down. They had to stop more often, as the party was getting higher and higher, then they had passed the treeline into open ground, which didn't make anyone comfortable. Anyone on high ground could be watching them, and there wasn't a thing they could do about it. But the pass was just ahead.

“Finally!” Guru said. He'd been on point with Neal Brandon.

“Oh, yeah,” Brandon agreed. “Cross that, and it's all downhill.”

“I'll stay here, Neal.” Guru said. “Go get the Major and Lori.”

Brandon nodded, and went back. A few minutes later, the party was with him. Adams was checking his map-an old U.S. Forest Service map that Lori had loaned him. “That the pass?”

“That's it, Major,” Lori said. “Another three or four days, then maybe we can find some civilization.”

“Not today: we've only three hours or so of daylight. Let's get back to the treeline, and make camp. We'll cross in the morning.”


The next morning, the party was fed, rested, and ready to go. As they approached the pass, everyone was keyed up. If there was going to be an ambush, this would be a good spot to spring one: the group out in the open, and whatever attackers would have high ground and concealment among the rocks.

The party approached the pass, and Navy Lt. Lyle Branson, an A-7 pilot, glanced to the right. “I'd swear there was something up there.”

“Still jumpy after that...thing, Lyle?” Neal Brandon kidded.

He shook his head. “No, but I thought I saw sunlight reflecting off of something.”

“If somebody was up there, they would've opened fire by now.” Lori said. “I would, if I were up there.”

“Don't worry about it, Lyle,” Adams said. “Let's get to the other side of the pass, then we're in the homestretch.”

As the party approached the pass, and crossed it, they were being watched. Unknown to them, a Spetsnatz team was watching the pass. They were under orders to observe and report, and one of the Soviets, the team's second-in-command, had a 35-mm camera with a telephoto lens. He was snapping pictures of the party as they moved to the pass. He was certain that he got faces, but would have to wait until the photos were developed to make sure. The team commander knew he could have set an ambush here, and wiped out the guerrillas, but those were not his orders. The Front intelligence directorate wanted to know who was using the mountain passes and how often, to determine guerrilla supply lines, as well as to identify particular individuals. He'd been told to stay hidden, observe, take photographs, and report. And to give a detailed report to the local commander upon extraction.

On the other side, it was level for a bit, then it was downhill, just as had been hoped. They camped for the night about three miles from the pass, and for the first time since setting out, everyone was relieved.


17 May 1986: 0930 Mountain Time:

It had been a relatively easy two days since crossing the pass, and Lori's map showed several hiking trails that led down the west side of the mountains. Though the trails were obvious, and if one wanted to set ambushes, there would be no better place to set some, it beat using game trails or just plain going through the woods. Not to mention the fact that after nearly a week on the trail, people were getting tired. Breaks were more frequent, much to Major Andrews' displeasure-and Lori's for that matter, but there was no getting around it.

The party had stopped for a break, having been on the trail for two hours, when the point element, Neal Brandon and Mike Jensen, went on ahead. They thought they'd seen something, and went to investigate. They came running back, breathless. “Major, Lori, you'd never guess what we just found.”

“What?” Lori asked.

“There's a Forest Service station. Nobody's there, but there's a garage, and what looks like an office.”

Lori checked her map, and Andrews did too. There was a dirt road nearby, and they had been hoping to get to that road and follow it. It would be a lot easier to just follow the road, even if it exposed them to ambush. But there had been no sign of enemy-or friendlies for that matter. “Major, if there's a garage, there might be a truck or two there. If it hasn't been looted, there's probably gas there, too.”

“And just drive on out of here?” Adams asked. “We'd be easy targets.”

“Got a better idea?” Lori shot back. “At this rate, we'll be out of food before we can walk out.”

The Major knew she was right, and simply nodded. The group headed on to the station. And both were surprised: the station wasn't on their map. Lori checked the date of issue on the map: 1974. “Great. How many other surprises are there?”

“Let's check this out first,” Adams said. “Guru, Neal, Tony: Check this place out. Give a wave if it's clear.”

“Right,” Guru said. He collected the other two, and the trio headed to the station. The station looked deserted, but the doors were locked, and the windows shut. “Guru, I don't like this.” Neal Brandon said.

“Think it's a trap?”

“Yeah, I do. But whose?” The Marine asked.

“Let's check it out. Go on ahead, Neal. Tony, cover the both of us. I'll be right behind Neal.”

Both nodded, then the Marine went in, and Guru, his AKM at the ready, was right behind him. Neal went around the building, checking for any booby traps or mines, and finding nothing obvious. Still suspicious, he decided the best way to get in was to break a window. “Guru, I think we can get in by a window.”

“Break a window?” Guru asked. “Still think there's a reception committee around?”

“Don't think so now, but if there's something rigged on the doors.....”

“Say no more.” Guru nodded. “Do it.”

Neal took his AKM and broke one of the rear windows, and Guru helped him in. Neal looked around, and found the place musty, damp, and abandoned. He tried flipping a light switch, but nothing came one. “No power.”

“This far back?” Guru asked. “They probably have a generator. Anything on the doors?”

Neal went to the back door, and checked it. Nothing. He opened it, and waved to Guru. “Clear back.”

Guru went on in, and headed straight for the front door. Nothing. He opened it, and waved to Tony. Then he went into the garage, while Neal checked the office. Inside the garage, he found two Ford King Cab pickups, and then went into one of the trucks. There was a two-way radio, and he looked around for the keys. Sure enough, tucked in the driver's side sun visor, the keys came out. Then he went to the other truck, and found the other set of keys. He went back into the office, and found Neal waiting for him. “What'd you find?”

“There's a break room, but the refrigerator's empty, and the vending machines look OK.” Brandon said.

“All right. This place is clear,” Guru said. He went and waved Tony over. “Tony, wave the others in.”

“Gotcha.”

Carpenter walked into the road and waved the party in. Lori and the Major were surprised to see the two trucks. “These two have gas?” Adams asked.

“There's a gas tank in the back, but I haven't started the trucks,” Guru said, handing Major Andrews the keys. “We'll have to open the garage doors.”

Nodding, Adams told two of the other evadees to open the garage doors, which could be done without power. Then he started one of the trucks. It turned over easily, and the same went for the other.
“The tanks are full. Now I wouldn't mind riding out of here.”

Lori was inside the office, checking the desks. The calendar said September 5, 1985. The day after the invasion had begun. “Someone was here. They must've just closed up shop and left in some other vehicle,” she observed.

“Any supplies? Food, or whatever?” Adams asked.

“Nothing, Major.” Guru said. “They cleaned the place out before turning off the generator.”

Adams nodded. “See if there's any empty gas cans here. Check the big tank, see if it's got gas. If it does, fill those gas cans, then we're taking these trucks.”

Guru nodded, then collected a couple of the others, and sure enough, there was gas in the big tank behind the station. After filling the cans, he asked, “What about this place?”

“Leave it,” Lori said. “There might be someone else who can use this, even if it's just for shelter.”

“Check the desks,” Adams ordered. “See if there's a better map.”

A search of the three desks and their drawers found nothing useful. Though a search of a storage shed found several tarps, along with some tools: axes, shovels, Pondersosas (a combination of ax and scraper-used by woodland fire-fighting teams), and so on. Andrews ordered the gear brought along, just in case, then he had the gas tank behind the garage punctured. “No sense in leaving that gas for Ivan if he comes this way.”

After that had been taken care of, the group piled into the two trucks and pulled out of the station. In the lead truck, Neal Brandon was driving, with Lori beside him, two guerrillas in the back seats, and half of the party in the bed of the truck. “Follow the road, Neal. There's another forest road about five miles away, then we take that. Then that should lead us to a county road, then that takes us to State Highway 69.”

“Just hope Ivan doesn't have any Su-25s doing armed recon on the roads.”

After two hours of driving, and two roads later, they came to Colorado Highway 69. The sign at the intersection said “Westcliffe 20”, and Neal knew to take the right. Turning left only took them back towards enemy territory.

In the second truck, Guru was driving, with the Major beside him. Tony Carpenter and Mike Jensen were in the back seats, and the others were in the bed of the truck. “Ever think we'd be driving out of here, Major?” Guru asked.
“No, but right now, I'm not complaining. We just covered in three hours what would've taken a day on foot.”

Guru nodded. “Major, neither am I.”

Thirty minutes later, they rolled into Westcliffe. Or what had been Westcliffe. The town had been hit from the air, apparently, and there was nothing but burned-out buildings, wrecked cars and pickup trucks, and rubble. They stopped at the intersection of Highway 69 and State Route 96. A sign was still standing: it said, “Hillside 14; Texas Creek/Jct. U.S. 50 25”. The party got out to search the nearby buildings. Nothing was salvageable, and there were remains of bodies all over. The town still smelled of death, even though they had no idea of when the town had been attacked. “No sign of anything military around: no wrecked vehicles, nothing,” Tony Carpenter noted when he came back to the Major. “What'd they hit?”

“Want to bet there was a guerrilla band out of here, and Ivan decided to hit the town in reprisal?” Adams said.

“No takers,” Lori said. “This place is giving me the creeps.”

“You're not the only one,” Mike Jensen said. “I say we get the hell out of here.”

Adams nodded. “Okay, people! Mount up and let's go.”


Twenty minutes of driving, and they came to Hillside. That town, too, had been hit, and there was nothing standing. Lori and the Major talked over the truck radios, and decided not to stop, but keep going. A few miles down the road, they came to a local road. The sign there said, “Cotopaxi 6; TO Jct U.S. 50 West.”

They stopped, and everyone got out to stretch their legs. It had been so long since anyone had been in a car or truck, and they were unuused to being in a vehicle. Lori was checking her map. “That's a dirt road, and want to bet it hasn't seen a repair crew in ages?”

Most everyone nodded, but one of the guerrillas, Sean Weston, who'd been a Colorado Department of Transportation road engineer prewar, went over to the road. He could tell someone had been working on the road. “Somebody's been here. There's dozer tracks, and they're about a week old. And the road looks like it's been worked on.”

“Got to be friendlies,” Brandon said. “Has to be.”

“Yeah, but that road likely doesn't have bridges: there's a couple of creeks on the map, and that road crosses them,” Lori said, pointing at the map.

“If someone's been working on the road, they've probably taken care of that,” Adams said. “All right: let's take the short cut.”

[Matt Wiser]

And Part II: Again, comments and questions welcome!

17 May 1986: 1500 Mountain Time, Calumet, CO

Colonel Ernesto Bella was sitting in his office at the City Hall. He'd been the local military governor since the invasion, and though the first month had gone well, those infernal Wolverines had been a major problem. Not only had they repeatedly struck at the liberating forces, but had inspired others to begin their own guerrilla activities, and this sector of Colorado, which for a month had been considered pacified, was now a mess. Though the Wolverines had been dealt with after their final attack on the town, other bands had not ceased their depredations. It didn't help matters that his second-in-command, a Nicaraguan Captain, had been killed in the attack, along with a Soviet Spetsnatz Colonel, who'd been brought in to deal with the guerrilla problem once and for all. The only bright spot had been the death of his superior, General Vassily Bratchenko, in the attack, and though Bella had to sing the General's praises at the memorial service, privately, he, and a number of other officers, had been glad that....butcher had met his end.

Colonel Bella had submitted his resignation, but he'd heard nothing so far, and given the war “emergency”, his request was likely to be denied. So, he'd been gathering material, for he'd made a decision that he knew was the right one: when the opportunity came, he would defect. Then there was a knock on the office door. He had taken over the Mayor's office, and was actually glad that he no longer had to deal with that man. What was the American term? “Ass-kisser”, someone had said. Well, a month after the Wolverines' attack, there had been one more attack on the town, only this time, it had been swift and silent. A number of those who'd been cooperating with the liberating forces had met with violent ends, and among them had been the Mayor. Bella now dealt with the civilian population through the prewar City Manager, and the fellow, though he could tell was not too thrilled about cooperating with the Socialist Forces, did what was necessary to keep the population under control. There was a second knock. “Come in,”

“Comrade Colonel,” his new deputy, a Cuban Army Captain, said. “Major Volshov is here.”

“Volshov?”

“Spetsnatz, Comrade Colonel,” the Captain said.

“Ah, yes. Send him in, please, Ricardo.”

Nodding, the Captain ushered in the Soviet officer. He had been Colonel Strenlikov's deputy commander, until the man's death, and now ran the 779th Independent Spetsnatz Battalion. “Comrade Colonel.”

“What do you have, Volshov?” Bella asked. “Your men knew their orders, correct?”

“Absolutely, Comrade Colonel!” Volshov said. “They avoided contact with the enemy, and brought back some photographs. The patrol only saw one party going through the pass, headed west.” The Spetsnatz officer opened a manila folder and showed Bella the photos.

“Hmm....Good enough to identify people,” Bella was impressed. “Any idea who these....people are?”

“No, Comrade Colonel. My intelligence officer has access to records on known guerrillas, and none of them are familiar to him,” Volshov told his superior.

“What were the patrol leader's observations?”

“He noted that most of those observed seemed to have a military bearing. They may have been downed airmen, perhaps?”

Bella nodded. “Still, Major, once one becomes a guerrilla, they develop a military bearing very quickly. But, given the number of aircraft that have gone down in this area, you may be right.”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel,” Volshov said.

“You do have copies of these photographs?” Bella asked.

“Of course, Comrade Colonel,” nodded Volshov. “Your own military intelligence people may be able to make use of them. As would the DGI.”

“Thank you, Comrade Major,” Bella said. “They certainly will. That'll be all.”

The Spetsnatz officer saluted and left the office.

Bella took the photos and scanned them once more. Yes, some of them looked like they were downed pilots. What was the term? A “rat line?” Yes, this might be such a line, where the guerrillas conducted downed pilots and others who were escaping the Soviets over the Rocky Mountains and to American lines. It was more of an outpost war on the other side, his intelligence briefings said. Soviet-bloc outposts on the other side were few and far between, and often could not be held. Bella took the photos, and put them back in the folder, before putting them in his briefcase, where they joined a number of other documents that the Americans would clearly love to get their hands on.

He made his decision. Then and there. “Ricardo!”

Bella's deputy came in. “Comrade Colonel?”

“Get my driver and jeep. I'm going to one of the outposts.”

“Is that wise, Comrade Colonel?”

“Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. Still, I need some fresh air. Being stuck in this office for a while makes one long for the outdoors.” Bella said.

“Comrade Colonel,” the man said.

A few minutes later, Bella's UAZ-469 jeep pulled up to City Hall. He took his briefcase-which his deputy was curious about, but said nothing. The ways of Field-grade officers were a mystery to him, just as they were to junior officers the world over. “When will you be back, Comrade Colonel?”

“A few hours, Ricardo. I may even have dinner with the men at the outpost. A gesture of solidarity with the men on the line, you might say,” said the Colonel. Bella got into the jeep. “Keep things going here until I return.”

The deputy clicked his heels and smartly saluted. “Comrade Colonel!”



17 May 1986, 1545 Mountain Time: County Road 85, near Cotopaxi, Colorado:


Guru was driving the second truck, keeping his eye on the first, and trying to avoid bumps and dips. “Major, whoever worked this road hasn't been here in a while.”

“No kidding!” Adams responded. “If it was the Army, they just did the bare essentials.”

Then the radio crackled to life. “Major, this is Lori.”

Andrews picked up the talker. “Go ahead.”

“Looks like a military camp up ahead. There's a flag flying, but I can't tell whose from this distance.” At the same time, her truck stopped.

Guru stopped behind Lori's truck and everyone got out. Several pairs of binoculars were soon in use. “Looks like ours,” Tony Carpenter said.

“I'll go along with that,” Guru said.

“Problem is, that collaborationist force, the ALA, has a flag similar to ours,” Lori said. “Someone's got to get close and see who they are.”

“I'll go,” WO Kyle Lewis said.

Adams nodded. Lewis was the best of the aviators, and was Ranger-qualified. “All right, we'll cover you.”

Lewis took off his Soviet gear, taking only two things: his AKM rifle, and his winter camo suit. If need be, he'd wave it at whoever it was to ID himself.

The party watched through binoculars as he approached the camp. “If they're hostiles?” Lori asked.

“If they are, we get in those trucks and hightail it out of here. Then we find some other way around that location,” Adams decided.


Lewis took his time in getting close. He could see that the brush had been cleared away to give the outpost's defenders a clear field of fire, except where they hadn't. And a trick he'd been taught at Ranger school came back. If grass wasn't being cleared, that was a sure sign there were mines around. He looked at the flagpole: it was the Stars and Stripes, but was it the good guys? Those ALA scum had a variation of it that you needed to get real close to see. He crept in closer, taking care to check for booby traps. If they're ours, there's Claymores around, and he didn't want to trip one if he could help it.


In the outpost, a very bored soldier was standing watch. He was wondering what his platoon was doing here, watching a road that no one had traveled on for months, apart from those engineers who took their heavy equipment there for a couple of weeks. Rumor had it some kind of push might be happening and the higher-ups wanted the road in at least passable shape. He shouldered his M-16 and took off his helmet. When are we getting those Kevlar helmets? The airborne mafia has theirs, so when do we get ours? Then he heard something. He raised his rifle, and called for his squad leader.

“Damn it!” Lewis whispered to himself. He'd found some wire, and attached to the wire were cans of varying types and sizes. An old Vietnam trick to alert bases that there were intruders in the wire. And that meant that this camp had friendlies. Then he heard a shout:

“HALT! Identify yourself!”

“You Americans?” Lewis yelled.

“Who are you?” The voice yelled back.

“Make sure you're Americans,” Lewis yelled. “Where did the Dodgers play baseball before going to L.A.?”

“Brooklyn,” the voice said. “Now, how many Oscars did John Wayne win?”

They were Americans, Lewis knew. Though he didn't know himself, he did have a ready answer. “Not enough!”

“Well, Sarge, do we shoot him or not?”

“He's right, though,” A soldier stood up. “Stand up and come on in.”

Lewis stood up and waved his camo suit. The soldiers waved him in, though he was careful to keep his hands visible, and nowhere near his rifle. Then he saw the flag. The genuine article. “WO Kyle Lewis, United States Army,”

“Staff Sergeant Clay Haswell, 2-17 Infantry, 7th ID,” the solider said. He pointed to a gap in the wire, and Lewis got into the camp. “Where did you come from, uh, Sir?”

“Been on the other side with the guerrillas,” Lewis said. He pointed to the specks in the distance where the party was. “There's a whole bunch of us: downed pilots and guerrillas. We've been looking for friendlies for over a week.”

“Well, Sir, you found 'em,” Sergeant Haswell replied. “Carter, Walsh! Go with Mr. Lewis, and escort the rest of his party in,”

Two soldiers nodded, while Lewis shook Haswell's hand. “Where's your platoon leader?

“Dead. Got himself killed on a patrol a week ago. And they haven't sent us a new shavetail yet.”

Nodding, Lewis told the two GIs to follow him back down the road.


“He's coming back,” Tony Carpenter observed. “And he's got two people with him.”

Everyone reached for their rifles, and took cover beside the road. “Don't fire unless I give the word,” Adams ordered.

People nodded, as they raised their weapons. Then Kyle yelled. “Major! We've got friendlies!” He motioned the two soldiers to go ahead of him.

Major Adams and Lori stood up. “What's your unit?”

One of the soldiers responded, “7th ID. 2-17 Infantry, 2nd Brigade.”

“Major Mark Adams, United States Marine Corps,” Major Adams said. “Lori, here, she's in charge of the guerrillas.”

The two soldiers saluted, then Carter, a Spec 4, said. “Sir, let's go.”

Nodding, Andrews ordered everyone into the trucks, and they drove to the outpost. And for the first time in months, the evadees saw an American flag flying, and by habit, they saluted. Then Sergeant Haswell came in. He saw Major Adams and saluted. “Major,”

“Sergeant,” Adams said, glad to return the salute. “Are we glad to see you.”

“Sir.” Haswell said. “I've called my company commander, and we should have vehicles coming to take you guys and gals”-he saw Lori Sheppard and two other female guerrillas-”to the rear.” He looked at the USFS trucks. “Guess you won't be needing those anymore, Sir.”

Both Adams and Lori tossed him the keys. “If you can use 'em, Sergeant, they're yours.”

“Yes, Sir,” Haswell said. “We'll find a use for 'em.”

A few minutes later, a pair of 6x6 GMC trucks arrived. An Army Captain climbed down from one of them. “Major Adams? I'm Captain Dale Logan. These trucks'll be taking your party back to Division.”

“Where's that?” Adams asked.

“Salida, Sir. If you and your party will get on the trucks, Sir.”

Nodding, Adams waved to the group. “Let's go, people!”


1610 Mountain Time. County Road 44, west of Calumet, CO


Colonel Bella's UAZ-469 jeep headed west, towards one of his forward outposts. A Soviet motor-rifle brigade, one that had been pulled from Afghanistan and sent here, had the outpost line in this area. He knew the brigade commander, and both knew that there wasn't much chance of a push over the mountains in force. Now, guerrillas sallying from the mountains to raise whatever hell they could, that was a totally different story, and the guerrillas knew full well not to attack the company-sized outposts. Shooting up patrols, or ambushing supply convoys, now, that was a different matter. But Bella knew, though his driver didn't, that they'd never get to the outpost. Knowing the dispositions of the Soviet and Cuban forces in the area, he knew where to cross into No-Man's Land and then get to American lines. The jeep pulled up to an intersection, complete with STOP signs.

“Almost there, Comrade Colonel,” the driver said.

“Yes,” Bella agreed. He took out his service pistol. “Now, Corporal, you will get out and walk, back the headquarters,” he said, pointing the Makarov in the driver's face. “Get out and start walking. NOW.”

Thoroughly frightened, the driver got out, and tried to take his weapon.

“Leave your weapon in the vehicle,” Bella said, and the driver left his AKM in the jeep. Bella then got out himself, still covering the driver, and pointing the pistol at the driver, ordered him to get going. And the man ran away. Smiling, Bella got back into the jeep, pulled out his own map, and started taking back roads. It would be a day, maybe two, before he found a road across the mountains, but, even if he had to take logging roads or what the Americans called “four-wheel drive trails”, he'd get to where he was going. And he knew of a couple of caches that he had put there: he'd found a couple of isolated, but abandoned, cabins that would be perfect for his purposes. Bella had placed the caches shortly after the Wolverines' final raid, stocking them with food, fuel, and ammunition. Even a couple of AK rifles in each. Now, he thought as he headed towards one of them, did the guerrillas find the caches first?


1750 Mountain Time: Salida, CO


The two GMC trucks bringing the evadees to Salida pulled into town. The canvas covers on the trucks hadn't been put on, and everyone had a view. As they got closer to Salida, the number of outposts increased, and a couple looked like Vietnam-era firebases, even. When they got into town, seeing armed troops on the streets, along with armed locals, was no surprise. The trucks pulled up to City Hall: it was Division HQ. Several officers, and a number of soldiers, were waiting. One of the officers came up to Major Adams.

“Major Adams?”

“That's right.”

“I'm Colonel Mitch Drummond, G-2, 7th ID. Welcome back to Free America.”

Adams saluted. “Sir, glad to be back.”

“Now, we'll have to verify the evadees' identity, just to make sure. The air liaisons have all of the aircrews' personal verification questions,” Drummond told the Major. The aircrews overheard that, and knew why. With the ALA, and Soviet intelligence probably inserting agents disguised as either refugees or evadees, verification was a necessary part of life.

“After that?”

“You all can get cleaned up, and something to eat,” Drummond said. “Then my intel people want to have a talk with all of you.”

“Colonel, with all due respect, after we eat, we need to sleep. We've been running on adrenalin for over a week, and, Sir, we need to crash someplace.”

The intelligence officer nodded understanding. “All right, Major.” He looked at the aircrew and the guerrillas, and all were clearly tired. “The debriefs can wait until morning.”


After the aircrews' identities had been verified, and they had vouched for the guerrillas, the party was taken to a reception center set up at the local High School. There, they were able to get out of their dirty clothes, and have a hot shower and decent shave for the first time in months. The chow hall was open, and the Army mess people told everyone that there was more variety there than at the cafes in town. Knowing mess people, the military evadees took that with a grain of salt, with more than one “Yeah, right,” being uttered. Since classes were still being held at the school, there were tents set up, and the party, in clean Army OD fatigues, but still keeping their weapons, fell down on the cots and went to sleep.


The next afternoon, Colonel Drummond came by the tents. He was wondering why no one from the group had shown up at Division HQ to talk with his people. The Officer-in-Charge of the reception center simply took the Colonel to the tents, and showed him why. All were still asleep, nearly twenty-four hours after their arrival. The Colonel nodded. “Anyone try to wake them, Captain?”

“No, Sir,” the officer replied. “They've all got their weapons with them, and if we try to shake one of them awake, they might shoot one or two of my people.”

Drummond laughed. “Well, we can't have that, can we, Captain?”

The captain smiled. “No, Sir. I'll just notify you when they wake up.”


19 May 1986, 1530 Mountain Time, 7th Infantry Division, Salida, CO:


Guru and Tony came out of the Division's G-2 shop. They had spent several hours with not only the Army intel people, but an Air Force Intelligence Officer had also debriefed them. Everything had been gone over, from shootdown, to those who had helped them, to their time in the mountains, and the trip out. It wasn't enough that they had told the same story to the Army pukes, but the AF wanted it firsthand from them as well. And that intel weenie was going to be busy, for there were six AF evadees in all, and he'd be busy into the night and the next day.

Glad to be out of the intel weenies, and dressed in new BDUs, Guru turned to Tony. “Want something to eat? There's a cafe not that far away.”

“Yeah, a late lunch sounds good,” Tony said. “Hey, there's Lori.”

Lori Sheppard came towards them. She waved them over. She was in new BDUs as well. She had spent the morning not with the Division's intelligence people, but with Special Forces. There was a Special Forces Base nearby, and she had been anxious to talk to the Green Berets. “Hey, guys!”

“Lori, how's the Army treating you?”

“Couldn't ask for anything more. They'll be sending some SF in, and my people as well, to the Family Camp. We'll evacuate those people by chopper, and they're going to be with us the rest of the way,” she said. “However long that is.”

“One thing my Squadron CO told me, Lori, on Day Two: 'It'll be a long war.'” Guru said.

Tony Carpenter nodded in the direction of the cafe. “Lunch?”

“Yeah,” Lori agreed. “I can use a late lunch.”

“Where's your .270?” Guru asked. He saw that she had her AKM instead.

“Oh, the SF guys are taking care of it. Their gunsmith was practically in heaven. He's drooling at the thought of customizing it for me, but I told him no. It's a family heirloom, and right now, it's my only family connection.”

Guru and Tony knew all too well what she meant. “Sorry...”

“Don't be,” Lori replied. “Not your fault. And if someone talked, I'll find whoever it is. And kill them myself.”

The two pilots understood, and they also knew that she meant what she said. Then they walked to the cafe. A sign at the entrance asked that all civilians check their long guns at the door, but military personnel could keep theirs. And they saw several of their fellow evadees sitting down at a table. “Guys, come on in,” Neal Brandon waved.

“Thanks,” Tony said. And the trio joined their friends. The waitress came over with menus for the new arrivals. “You guys just ordered?”

“Yeah,” Bill Andrews said. “Most of the beef, though, it's unavailable. Even if they do have it, you need a ration coupon to order.”

“Let me guess: chicken, pork, elk, deer?” Lori asked.

“You got it,” Neal Brandon said.

“I've had enough deer and elk that if I ate one more bite, I'll start growing antlers,” Guru quipped. “Pork chops and eggs is good enough for me.”

“Same here,” Lori said. “I can do without for a few more days. Remember, prewar, I hunted a lot.”

“Seconded,” Tony said.

After the new arrivals had ordered, Guru noticed something. He saw a very healthy looking busboy cleaning up a table. “Shoudn't he be in uniform?”

“We asked the waitress that same question when we got here,” Bill Andrews said. “He can't join up.”

“What?”

“He's diabetic, she said. Needs insulin every day, and the Army's the area's only supply.” Andrews said.

“Oh, boy.” Guru sighed. Then he noticed the boy was packing a Colt .357 Magnum in a shoulder holster. “Everybody's carrying.”

“Yep,” Brandon said. “And that kid does his part: they have a mounted posse, and he rides with 'em. He may be diabetic, but he still does his part for the war effort.”

“Sorry to change the subject, but did you guys hear about when we're leaving?” Bill Andrews asked.

“The AF liaison said we'd have something in a day or two. Family notifications have to go first,” Tony Carpenter said. “Then we get two weeks' leave, then refresher training, and back to our original units.”

Andrews smiled. He raised his glass of ice water. “Here's to that,”

Clink

The waitress brought the original party's order, and said to the new arrivals, “Your meals are coming. Be a few more minutes.” And Guru, Tony, and Lori watched with envy as their friends tore into their food. Lori was drooling, and looked at Neal Brandon as if possessed. Then she saw him jerk his head up with a start. “What's up?”

“The front door.”

“What are you..” Lori asked, turning to look. Guru and Tony turned as well, just as a Cuban Colonel, in full uniform, came into the cafe. And everyone at the table, not to mention several Army personnel at other tables, reached for their rifles. And as safeties were being clicked off, an Army officer came running in.

“Hey, don't shoot! He's a defector.”

“Prove it,” An SF trooper at a nearby table said, pointing a CAR-15 at the Cuban.

Everyone at Guru's table had their AKMs out, waiting. Then another officer came in-a light colonel, this one, and said, “People, he's a defector, it's OK.” And weapons began to be lowered. As the Cuban entered, it was obvious that he was what they said he was. Several SF officers were right behind him, and in plain BDUs, a couple of others, who looked to be “OGA” types, followed the officers. The party sat down at another table, and after ordering coffee, started to talk to the Cuban. He took one look at Guru's table and asked, in English, “Is this how you welcome guests?”

One of the officers laughed. “Colonel, with that group, it probably is. They just came out of the mountains a few days ago.”

“I see...” the Cuban said. Then he switched to a language that no one, other than the SF men, could understand.

Unable to follow the conversation, Guru's party ate. As they got up to leave, the Cuban was still at it. “Want to bet they'll be at it all night?” Neal Brandon asked.

“No takers,” Tony said. “Maybe they'll be so busy with him, they'll tell us, 'We're done with you guys.'”

After paying for his meal, Lori's, and Tony's, Guru went outside. There, he found an AF Sergeant, part of the liaison team, waiting. “Sergeant?”

He turned. “Lieutenant Wiser?” Then he saluted.

Guru returned it. “That's right.”

“Sir, I've got movement and travel orders for you and Lieutenant Carpenter.” He looked behind Guru. “Is Captain Andrews in there? I've got something for him as well.”

Tony came out, with Lori right behind him . “Who's asking?”

“He is,” Guru pointed to the Sergeant. “He's got one for you, Tony,” Guru said as he opened the envelope. “Two weeks' leave. Movement and travel to Castle AFB is authorized, civilian train transportation to Fresno....” Home for two weeks, Guru noticed. “Can't beat that.”

“Same here,” Tony said. “Two days on a train to Oregon, though,” he saw.

Lori shook their hands. “At least you guys have a home to go back to. When this is over, I have to start all over.” She looked at them “And so do a lot of others.”

“Yeah.” Guru knew full well what she meant. He held out his hand “Lori, when this is all over, you're welcome at our unit reunions. You've earned it.”

She shook his hand, then embraced Guru. “Thanks, Matt.” Then she did the same with Tony. “You guys take care, and do me, and all of us up in the hills a favor.”

“Just say it, Lori,” Guru said.

“Kill as many of those bastards you want. Shoot them down or blow 'em up on the ground, I don't care.” Lori told both of them with all seriousness.

“We'll do that.”


24 June 1985, 1400 Mountain War Time; Williams AFB, AZ.


Lieutenant Matt Wiser got off the C-130 that had flown him, via Beale AFB and Nellis, from Kingsley Field to Williams. Just as he'd hoped, he was rejoining the Chiefs, the 335th TFS, and getting back into the fight. He looked around, and saw the familiar: F-4s, painted in either SEA camouflage or Navy/Marine Corps grey, A-4s and A-6s, AF Jolly Green Giant rescue choppers, and a couple of other C-130s. Just another day.

He'd enjoyed the two weeks at his home in Auberry, in the Southern Sierra Nevada foothills. His family was doing OK, and rationing, though it had bitten, wasn't hitting rural folks as hard as it did in cities, for nearly everyone who could had a garden. Though trips to Fresno were still common, people knew to combine trips, and shop for a neighbor if that person only needed one or two things.

Word had gotten around that he was back, and he'd been asked to talk to school assemblies, the local VFW, the Shaver Lake Chamber of Commerce, and so on. Recounting his experiences, some of which he still didn't want to talk about, went easier than he thought, and he wished he had more time at home with his mom and grandparents, but the two weeks went by fast, and it was time to get to the Fresno Air Guard Base. There, he'd gotten his travel orders to go to Kingsley Field, and that meant space-available again on a C-130. When he got to Kingsley Field, to his surprise, he had very little to do with Colonel Saul Tigh, the CO of the RTU there, but things he'd heard about the man came back: he was stubborn, irascible, grumpy, and just an overall asshole. When Guru had said as much to one of his instructors, the man-who had flown with Tigh in Vietnam before going to the Reserves, simply said, “You only have him for two weeks. I put up with him in SEA for a year.”

His RTU time went by fast, and on his final check ride, he'd maxed the flight. His instructor was beaming on landing, and was ready to pronounce Guru requalified. Tigh was on the ramp, and when the instructor brought Tigh the form to sign, with Guru there, Tigh had simply signed it, made some kind of grunt, then went off. Guru turned to the instructor, a Captain, and said, “That's it? No 'Welcome back to the Air Force?' Or 'Glad to have you back in the fight?'”

“That's it, Lieutenant.”

The only down side: Tony Carpenter, once he requalified, was being kept on as an instructor. When they were in the O-Club that afternoon, Guru was celebrating, while Tony was drowning his sorrows. “Tony, it won't last forever. You'll be back in the fight.”

“Yeah, but for at least a year, I have to put up with this asshole.” Carpenter grumbled.

“Well....what else can I say?” Guru held out his hand. “I'm glad to have flown with you, and see you at the reunion.”

“Guru, I'm glad to have known you,” Tony said, shaking his hand. “I'll see you around. Take care, and check six.”


Now, as he got off the C-130, a wave of heat hit him. He was in his dress blues, as per regs, and it was hot on the ramp. Guru looked around, and saw the 335th was still in its old location. He went to check back in with his squadron, glad to be back. He opened the door to the old T-37 flying training squadron offices that the 335th had taken over, and he saw a few familiar faces. And one of them recognized him: Captain Tim Cain, one of the backseaters left from Day One. “Guru!”

“Tim,” Guru said. “Glad to be back.”

“We heard you were coming back, man. How bad was it with the Resistance?”

“Don't ask. It was bad enough,” Guru replied. “If you want to know, it should be in the SERE Bulletin.”

“Yeah,” Cain responded.

“Colonel Rivers still the CO?” Guru asked.

“He is. He'll want to see you.”

Guru nodded. “All right.”

He picked up his bag and went to the CO's office. Several of his friends had recognized him, but there were more than a few unfamiliar faces. And he knew why. People he'd flown with were KIA, MIA, POW, or were in the hospital. Or worse: they might be going through what he'd experienced. Shaking his head at the thought, he knocked on the CO's door. “Come in.”

Guru went into the office and saluted. “Colonel, one lost sheep back to the 335th.”

“Guru!” Lt. Col. Dean Rivers said, getting up and shaking his hand. “Glad to have you back.”

“Good to be back, Sir.” Guru replied.

“Before you have a seat, you're out of uniform,” Rivers told Guru.

Guru was confused. They'd reoutfitted him at Castle before he went home, and he found out the AF had sent his personal belongings home after he'd been reported MIA. “Sir?”

Rivers gave him a small case, like a jeweler would use. “Open it.”

Guru did. “Captain?” He stared at the CO with a dumb look on his face. “Sir, I don't have enough time in grade.”

“Things are different in wartime, Guru. Lot of things happened while you were doing the SERE course for real.”

“We heard. Some botched counterattack, then Ivan pushed north again, and they got stopped short of the Mississippi and I-90.” Guru replied. “We saw Stars and Stripes when we came out of the mountains.”

Rivers nodded. “Yeah. And we just started pushing them back. Chances are, we go right back to where they were in January.”

“Lovely,” Guru said.

“Anyway, sorry about Tony not coming back. I asked for both of you, but they wanted an Academy grad as an instructor there,” Rivers admitted. “But I've got you a new WSO. A week out of the RTU, but no combat yet.”

“Captain's bars and a new WSO in the same day,” Guru noted. “Be careful of what you ask for, because you might just get it.”

Rivers let out a laugh. “There is that. Ready to meet your new backseater?”

“Might as well,” Guru said. Not that he had much choice.

Rivers went to the office door and motioned for someone to come in. A female 1st Lieutenant came in, with wavy blonde hair as long as regs permitted, and even in a flight suit, she was a looker. “First Lieutenant Lisa Eichhorn reporting, Sir.” she said, saluting.

Rivers nodded and returned the salute. “Lieutenant,.” He turned to Guru. “Lieutenant Eichhorn, meet Captain Matt Wiser, your new pilot.”

Guru was surprised. This had to be a welcome-back joke. But what if it wasn't? When had they tossed the ban on women flying combat? “Sir?”

“Guru, they tossed the ban on women flying combat in November, but we were all too busy to notice,” Rivers reminded the new Captain. “She's in the first crop of female pilots and WSOs to come out of the RTU.”

Well, then, that answers that. “Just like Ivan did, forty years ago,” Guru observed. He put out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Eichhorn replied.

“How'd you do at Kingsley Field?”

“First in my WSO class,” Eichhorn said with pride.

Guru noticed her Academy ring. “Any problems flying with an OTS grad?”

“Not at all,” Eichhorn replied. “Right now, the only thing I care about is my pilot wearing Air Force Blue.”

Guru nodded, then turned to Rivers, who made a habit of not wearing his class ring. “Boss, I think we'll get along just fine.” He turned to Eichhorn. “What's your call sign?”

“Goalie,” she replied.

“A guru and a goalie,” Rivers observed. “You two will make a good team. Now, Guru, I'll want a check ride with you in the morning, then you two can fly a fam hop to the Goldwater range to shake down. Because in three days, we're back on the firing line.”

“Yes, Sir.” Guru said.

“All right, find Mark Ellis, Guru, and see about billeting. We're still in the Mesa Sheraton, but he'll find you a roomie.”

Guru nodded.

“Anything else?” Rivers asked. Both shook their heads. “Dismissed.”

Back in the squadron offices, several old hands welcomed Guru back. And they reminded him of the obligatory promotion party! “Tomorrow night, guys,” Guru said. He walked out of the building, with Goalie right behind him. He turned to her. “Let's say we go to the Club, and talk things over. I think we'll make a good team.”

She nodded. “Suits me just fine. As long as the new Captain is paying.”

Guru laughed. “You know what? We'll get along just fine. And I am.”

It was her turn to laugh. “Then let's go.”



Epilogue:


14 October, 2011. Victory Day Air Show, Scott AFB, IL.


Colonels Matt Wiser and Lisa Eichhorn were sitting in the shade, which their F-15E Strike Eagles could provide. He had flown his Wing King bird from Hill AFB in Utah, where he commanded the 419th TFW of the AF Reserve, while Colonel Eichhorn flew her Wing King bird from Mountain Home AFB in Idaho, where she ran the 366th TFW “The Gunfighters.” They were the first married couple in the Air Force to be wing commanders at the same time, and flying the same aircraft, so there was naturally some publicity. They had been specifically requested by the Air Force to bring themselves and their aircraft to the show, and to have one other aircraft from their unit come, flown by veterans of World War III if at all possible, or the recent Baja War if not. Colonel Wiser had brought his WSO, who was too young to be in the Big War, but had flown with him in Mexico, and Colonel Eichhorn had done the same. But their wingmates had been in the big one: Colonel Wiser's was Lt. Col. Kelly Ann Ray, who had been a POW in Cuba during the war, while Colonel Eichhorn had brought along Lt. Col. Kara Thrace, who had been in the 335th during the war, and was now commanding the 390th TFS. All of their respective WSOs had flown in Mexico, when both units had deployed to Baja for that brief war.

This year's Victory Day Air Show was big, and for two reasons. First, it was the biggest show of the season, and all of the military's demonstration teams participated: the Thunderbirds from the Air Force, the Blue Angels from the Navy, the Army's Golden Knights parachute team, and the services' respective Heritage Flights. Second, it was the final Victory Day show to be held at Scott, because the following year, Andrews AFB would formally reopen, along with the rededicated and rebuilt Washington, D.C, and the show would move to Andrews on a permanent basis, much to the disappointment of the Greater St. Louis area, which looked forward to the show visitors pumping a lot of money into the local economy every year.

That was not a concern to the two colonels, who noted that a lot of vets were in attendance. Though this day was more of a practice day, with the teams having practice runs, it was also the day when VIPs could attend, without the extra security, and it was also the day that civic and veterans' organizations, as well as special needs visitors, could be there as well. The “Make-a-wish” kids often came on the practice days, and these days were less crowded.

Looking around, Guru saw the F-15Es from Seymour-Johnson, and he had a soft spot for his old wing, and the 335th, which was still part of the 4th TFW. Then there were the F-22s, and he knew full well that Kara and Kelly had a score to settle with the CO of the 357th TFW, who had “shot down” both of them in a Red Flag, and they had promised revenge, even if he was a one-star. The bombers were out, with B-52s and B-1s on the ramp, with the B-1C known as Cleopatra and its all-female crew being spotlighted, and a B-2 flyby from Whiteman was on the agenda. Just about every type of fighter, bomber, or transport was represented, and that was just the AF! All of the other services were well represented, with Navy, Marine, and Army aircraft and helicopters there, and the RCAF also came down as usual.

Guru and Goalie were talking with some cub scouts, signing autographs, and showing the kids around the F-15Es, while Kelly Ann Ray was signing books: her book Down in Cuba had become a best-seller, and had been made into a movie that had done well on Showtime, and was coming to DVD. Then Goalie looked around. “Where's Kara?

“She went to put some decals in the wheel well of that one-star's F-22,” Guru said. “Notice I said the wheel well. She knows full well not to put it on the outside.”

“Does she?” Goalie asked her husband. “I don't want my pay docked to pay for the paint job.”

Kara then came back. “Mission accomplished.”

“You did put them in the wheel well?” Goalie asked.

“Yes, Ma'am,” Kara said. “I may be crazy but I'm not stupid. Besides, I want that one-star's crew chief to have a coronary-along with said one-star.”

“That's our Kara,” Colonel Ray quipped. And everyone knew she wasn't kidding.

The cub scouts had just gone on, when a Cuban-accented voice spoke up. “Colonel Wiser, we meet at last.”

“Huh?” Guru turned and saw someone he hadn't seen personally since that long-ago day in that café in Colorado. But he'd seen the man on Larry King Live, being interviewed along with Erica Mason, one of the two surviving Wolverines, and now Governor of Colorado. “Well, now. Not every day you see a man you almost shot.”

“What?” Goalie asked. And the expressions on Kara's face and Kelly's were just as surprised.

“Ah,” Colonel Ernesto Bella, Cuban Army (ret.), said. “Yes, your Colonel here almost shot me in a café after my defection.” He explained the event to the Eagle crews.

“Ernesto, you didn't tell me about this?” a woman's voice said.

“Forgive me,” Colonel, meet my wife, Manuela, and my children, Jose, Pedro, and Sofia,” Bella said, introducing his wife, teenage son, and year-old twins.

“Pleased to meet you,” Guru said, and the other Eagle crews were just as pleasant.

“Now, what's this about nearly shooting him in a café?” Mrs. Bella asked.

Guru nodded. “Well, Ma'am, your husband came into the café still in his Cuban Army uniform, complete with beret, and everyone reacted out of reflex. It wasn't just us; almost everyone in there was carrying a weapon of one sort or another.”

Bella laughed. “Yes, and I remarked to one of the intelligence officers that 'Is this how you welcome guests?'”

“That I heard,” Guru said. “What brings you here, Colonel?”

“I have something for you,” Bella said. He motioned behind him, and a young woman came and handed him a folder, and getting by the bodyguards that always accompanied Bella. “My publicist. After my book's success, hiring one was mandatory.” He handed Guru the folder. “I suggest you have a look.”

Guru opened the folder. Several photos came out. They showed a party walking single-file, towards a mountain pass. All were dressed in Soviet winter suits, and had AK rifles at the ready, except for one, who had a hunting rifle. “I recognize the one with the rifle. Lori Sheppard: that's a .270 Winchester she's carrying.”

“Yes, I saw her at the café,” Bella said. “Now, look at the close-ups.”

Guru flipped through the photos. There were several 8x10 close-ups, all clearly enlargements. “OK, Neal Brandon, Lori Sheppard, and....” He looked at Bella. “This isn't possible.”

“It is, Colonel,” Bella replied.

“Let me see,” Goalie asked. She looked over Guru's shoulder. “What?! Guru, that's you!”

“Yeah,” Guru said. He looked at Bella. “Who took these?”

“A Spetsnatz team. They had orders to observe and report about whoever was using the pass. The Front intelligence directorate wanted to know about possible guerrilla supply lines, escape routes, that sort of thing. They had orders to observe and report only, and to avoid combat,” Bella said, matter of factly.

“How'd they know we were there?”

“They didn't,” responded Bella. “They had been up there for nine days, and were on the last day of their mission,”

“God...they're good enough to recognize everybody,” Guru noted. “Excuse me, Colonel, but I need to make a phone call.” He reached into one of his flight suit pockets and pulled out his cell phone.

“Who are you calling?” Goalie asked.

“Sheriff Lori Sheppard.” was the reply. Guru had her number, and he made the call.

“Sheriff Sheppard,” Lori said after picking up. “What's up, Colonel?”

“Lori,” Guru said. “I'm at the Victory Day Air Show, and there's a certain former Cuban colonel who's got some nice pictures. They're of us, going over the pass.”

“WHAT?”

“Colonel Bella says there was a Spetsnatz team keeping tabs on the pass. They got some nice pictures of everybody. Good enough to get ID on all of us.” Guru told the Sheriff.

“Who talked? Colonel, if someone was a rat, they'll wish they had never been born!” Lori was practically shouting into the phone.

“Nobody talked,” Guru said. “Bella said they were watching the pass, and we just came into range of their camera...”

“NOT GOOD ENOUGH!” Lori yelled. “I'll find the snitch, whoever it was, and watch as the Feds hang him or her! Colonel, I'll call you back. My chief of detectives is going to be busy for a while.” And with that, Lori hung up.

Guru went back to where Goalie was, with Colonel Bella. “Well?” Goalie asked.

“Great. Lori's gone ballistic. I told her about the Spetsnatz team and the photos, and she went ape. She's convinced someone was a traitor, and she's going after someone who doesn't exist. I do not want to be her chief of detectives right now.”

“Ah,” Bella said. “She has to satisfy herself that there wasn't a traitor, but will make life miserable for her subordinates in the meantime.”

“Exactly,” Guru said.

“Well, then.” Bella said. He turned to Colonel Ray. “Colonel Ray, I have read your book.”

She was surprised. “And how did you like it?”

“A very harrowing read, I must say.” Bella said. “Your treatment was most unforgivable, and totally reprehensible. I trust the guilty parties will pay?”

“A couple have, Colonel. The rest, well once the appeals are done, it's time to measure them for the correct drop,” replied Colonel Ray.

“Quite so,” Bella agreed. “Please accept my apologies as a Cuban. You and your fellow prisoners deserved much better treatment.” He put out her hand.

“You're not one of them, Colonel.” Ray said. “So you're okay in my book.” And the two of them shook hands.

“Ernesto, we should be going,” Mrs. Bella reminded her husband. “There's a lot more to see.”

“Yes, we should.” Bella turned to Guru. “You may keep the photographs, Colonel. Consider them a gift. And a reminder of a close shave.”

Guru nodded.

Bella then shook hands with the Eagle drivers, then he and his party-bodyguards included, moved on.

“Well....” Goalie said. “Not every day you meet someone like him.”

“Yeah,” Kara said. “He's still in shape, though: I read his book: the man's ex-Cuban SF. Experience in Nicaragua, Angola, Cambodia, El Salvador, and Mexico. He probably doesn't need the bodyguards.”

“There's enough ex-DGI types around who might still try to whack him,” Capt. Jody Tucker, Kelly Ray's WSO, commented. “He'll have them for a while longer.

Kelly nodded. “You know one thing?”

“What?” Guru asked.

“He's the first Cuban to actually apologize for what happened to me, personally,” Kelly replied. “He's okay in my book.”

Nodding, Goalie looked at the photos again. “Man, they were close.”

Her husband nodded. “Yeah. Now I have to do one more thing. But not until Monday.”

“What's that?” Kara asked.

“See if Lori's climbed down from the ceiling and calmed down,” Guru remarked dryly.

“Why Monday?” Goalie asked.

“It'll take her that long to settle down,” Guru said.


And with that, the show went on, for the rest of the day, and the whole weekend.

[Matt Wiser]

And the next one....the first day of the war, from the 335th's POV:


The First Day


Prologue: Nellis Air Force Base, NV: 30 August, 1985, 1430 Hours Pacific Daylight Time:


First Lieutenant Matt Wiser climbed down from his F-4E Phantom, having arrived at the sprawling Nellis AFB for his first Red Flag exercise. His unit, the 335th Tactical Fighter Squadron, had arrived that day from Seymour-Johnson AFB in North Carolina, and this was his first time at Red Flag, or any other major exercise for that matter. He'd been in the squadron all of six months, and was still relatively fresh out of F-4 training. One thing he was glad to have, was that his Squadron CO, Lt. Col. Mark Johnson, had taken him under his wing, and he was the CO's wingman. Colonel Johnson felt that it was his job not just to be CO, but to be a mentor to those just out of the RTU, and having Guru (Wiser's call sign) be his wingmate illustrated that.

Now, after climbing down from his F-4, tail number 515, he shook hands with his WSO, First Lieutenant Tony Carpenter. Tony, though, was an experienced WSO with a year in the cockpit, and as was usual in the AF, had been paired up with a pilot fresh from the RTU. So far, the pilot from California and the WSO from rural Oregon had hit it off, and were planning on enjoying the weekend in Vegas before the Red Flag got going. Then Sergeant Kyle Calhoun, 515's crew chief, came over. “Sir, anything I need to know?”

“She's going good, Sergeant,” Guru said. “515's working like a champ.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Then Colonel Johnson and his WSO, Maj. Bryan Calhoun, came over. “Guru, how do you like Nellis?”

“Hot, sir.” Guru said, and Tony echoed that.

“That it is,” Johnson said. “Come on in, get cooled off, and we'll get the lowdown.”


A few minutes later, the crews from the 335th were in the largest briefing room anyone in the squadron had been in, apart from the Academy grads. “This is kinda familiar,” Tony said to his pilot.

“What do you mean by that?” Guru replied.

“The Academy. A couple of the lecture halls are this big.”

Guru nodded as a one-star general came into the room. “TEN-HUT!”

Everyone snapped to attention as the general came into the room. Brig. Gen. Ken Shoemaker commanded the Fighter Weapons School, and supervised the Red Flag program. “Take your seats, gentlemen.”

Everyone found a place to sit as Shoemaker started to talk.

“Okay, first of all, welcome to Red Flag 9-85. For the next two weeks, beginning on Tuesday, you all will be put through the wringer when it comes to air combat. Air-to-air or air-to-ground, it doesn't matter. By the time your units are all through, you will have gained the experience needed to fly, fight, and survive if and when the balloon goes up.

“Statistically, most combat losses occur prior to the tenth combat mission. This exercise will give you the experience, without live ordnance, of those first ten missions. Keep in mind, that you will be flying against the best pilots in the Air Force, who are the Aggressors. They fly according to Soviet doctrine, and don't be surprised if they see you before you see them.

“Now, you'll have a flying day tomorrow, for orientation. Normally, in a combat zone, you wouldn't get that chance, but this is an exercise, and those rules apply. Before you all get billeted, one other thing: if you go off base, and chances are, all of you will, base security has been ramped up a notch. We're at Threatcon BRAVO for the time being. So expect some delays as you come and go from the base. Questions?”

'Sir,” Colonel Johnson raised his hand. “This have anything to do with China and the Far East?”

“Good question. This is just for this base only. Something's going on, and it's an ongoing investigation. It might be China, but then again, with everything that's going on south of the border....just keep in mind that this will likely blow over. That's what I've been told, anyway,” General Shoemaker said. “Anything else?” There were the usual questions about billeting, and the other usual things that went on with an exercise, then Shoemaker said, “All right, that's it. Good luck, and play safe.”


After going to the Las Vegas Hilton, where the squadron had been billeted, along with the 58th TFS from Eglin AFB, Guru and Tony went down to one of the hotel's restaurants for dinner. Most were out of the price range of a couple of Air Force First Lieutenants, but they a causal cafe to sit down and eat. After ordering their meals, Guru took out a copy of a Vegas newspaper he'd picked up in the hotel lobby, The Las Vegas Journal, and as he started to read, he whistled.

“What?” Tony asked.

“Chinese call for UN to discuss Soviet troop buildup in Far East.” Guru said, reading from the headline.

“Let me see...” Tony asked, and Guru handed him the front page. “Whoa...this looks serious. 'Chinese sources claim there are now eighty Soviet divisions in the Soviet Far East, and the Chinese Government has demanded an explanation from the Soviet Union. All requests have been denied.' Wouldn't surprise me, the two Communist giants going at each other.”

“Yeah, and North Korea is a friend of Ivan,” Guru pointed out. “If they go south when the Russians move....”

“We're at war,” Tony finished. “You up for a TransPac?”

“If you drive F-4s, it has to happen sometime,” Guru said, remembering one of his RTU instructors.

Then Colonel Johnson came in, and he was looking tired. “Wondered if I'd find some guys from the squadron here.”

“Well, Boss,” Guru said. “Most of the other eateries here are a bit above our pay grade.”

“Or dress code,” Tony added.

“There is that,” the CO said. “I'm waiting for the XO, we've got some things to talk about, and you guys will find out tomorrow, with everyone else.”

“As usual,” Guru deadpanned. “Big fish talk, little fish circle around and wait.”

Johnson smiled. “You're catching on fast, Lieutenant. Anyway, they had a briefing for all squadron commanders. Not just those here for the Flag, but the tenant units as well. Want to know why the base security got stepped up?”

“The thought had occurred to us,” Carpenter said, just as the waitress brought their dinner salads.

“Well, the story is that some guy whose parents were Russian emigres either tried to get into the Air Force and got turned down, or got kicked out of the Air Force, flipped out, made threats against the base, and well...nobody's taking any chances.”

“Great, some wacko with a grudge against the Air Force,” Guru said as he attacked his salad. “FBI out looking for this nut?”

“LVPD and FBI,” Johnson said. “So....now you know what's up. Just smile, grin and bear it, and hopefully soon, they'll catch this nut and they can stand down.”

“Everyone on base will be glad to hear that, Boss,” Tony said.

Guru nodded. “Even better still: they caught this bastard.”

Colonel Johnson nodded back. “That's the best of all.” Then he saw the XO appear at the entrance to the restaurant. “Looks like the XO's here. See you two tomorrow, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, 0800.”

“We'll be there,” Guru said.


Nellis AFB, NV, 0630 Hours Pacific Daylight Time, 4 September, 1985:


Lieutenants Matt Wiser and Tony Carpenter were in their rented Camaro, in a line of cars waiting to enter Nellis Air Force Base. They had risen early, eaten at the hotel, and knowing that there was a good chance security was still on alert, the both of them decided to go ahead and head to the base. Now, looking out the left window, Wiser saw a long line of cars on Craig Road waiting to enter the base. He and Tony had driven up Las Vegas Boulevard, avoiding I-15, and were in a long line as well. And both of them noticed Clark County Sheriff's Deputies and Nevada Highway Patrol officers assisting with traffic, since they were outside the city limits of Las Vegas. “How long have we been here?” Guru asked.

Tony looked at his watch. “Since 5:50.”

“God, with this much security, you'd think the President was coming.”

“Yeah,” Tony nodded. He went back to the morning's Las Vegas Review, which they'd picked up at the hotel along with the Los Angeles Times. “Says here they did find that wacko.”

“Oh?” Guru asked.

“Yeah. He crashed off of U.S. 93 near Henderson. They found him, dead, along with an AK-47 and 5,000 rounds of ammo.”

“Anything else, like, say, a note?” Guru asked. “Nuts like that always leave something to say 'The world sucks, It sucks to be me, so I'm lashing out.' Or something like that.”

Tony scanned the story. “Nope.”

“Great,” Guru cursed. “If this guy's dead, why all the security?”

“Maybe he's got friends?” Tony asked.

The line moved and as the Camaro got to the main gate, Guru and Tony noticed the AF Security Police waiting. They rolled down the windows and got ready to show their ID cards.

“Sirs, could you step out of the vehicle, please?” One of the airmen asked. Instead of the spit-and-polish of dress uniforms, they were in fatigues, and had M-16s slung over their shoulders.

Guru and Tony got out of the car and both were quickly padded down by SP s. After that, they were allowed to show their ID, and the car was given the mirror treatment, and a military working dog sniffed the vehicle. Everything was checked, and only after the dog was through did the SP airman hand the ID cards back to the two officers. “Here you go, sirs,”

“What's this about? Didn't they catch that loony last night?” Tony asked.

'Sir, all I know is what they told us: keep this up for another day or so. Not until the FBI and OSI give the all-clear.” OSI meant the Office of Special Investigations, the Air Force's criminal-investigation and counterintelligence arm.

The two F-4 crewers shrugged, got into their car, and headed into the base. After a few minutes, they found the building where their squadron was being housed for the duration of the exercise. After they parked, they found several of their squadron mates sitting around, waiting. “Look who the cat dragged in,” Capt. Morgan Donahue, who was one of the squadron's ordnance officers (every pilot and WSO had a secondary ground job besides flying) quipped.

'And good morning to you too,” Tony said. “Sir.”

“Let me guess? You guys still grumpy about being in that traffic jam?”

“You could say that,” Guru said as he got his bag out of the car. They then went inside and found the ops office. Both of them worked for Major Keith Pollard, the Operations Officer. He wasn't there, so they left their bags on their desks. As they got ready to go back outside, Colonel Johnson came in.

“Nice to see my wing crew in early,” Johnson said.

“Yes, sir,” Guru and Tony nodded.

“Major Pollard in?”

“No sir,” Guru replied. “Chances are, he's stuck in traffic.”

“Like almost everybody,” Colonel Johnson said. “You guys eat yet?”

“Yes, sir. We ate before coming here,” Tony said.

“Come on. It's going to be a busy day, and you'll be glad you had the extra food.”



Officer's Open Mess, Nellis AFB, NV: 0710 Hours Pacific Daylight Time:


“So, how was your weekend?” Colonel Johnson asked Guru and Tony.

“Celebrated my birthday Friday,” Lieutenant Wiser said. “One of the restaurants in the hotel is a steakhouse, and they had a steak and lobster tail dinner.”

“Steak and shrimp for me,” Tony said. “It was a little expensive, but since he paid, it was worth it.”

“Always good to have someone else pay for a dinner like that,” Maj. Brian Calhoun, Johnson's WSO, said.

“It is that,” Tony grinned. “Other than that, we wasted a little money in the slot machines.”

“Only a little, Boss,” Guru added.

Colonel Johnson nodded as he skimmed the Las Vegas Journal. This was a later edition than the one that had come out earlier in the morning. “See this? 'China Claims Soviets Plan Attack?'”

“We saw it, Colonel,” Guru said. “One thing I learned as a History Major....”

“And that is,” Johnson asked in between bites of his omelet.

“One of Eisenhower's prima donnas said this: 'There are only two rules of war, One, Never invade Russia. Two: Never invade China.'”

“Who said that?” Tony asked.

“Montgomery,” Guru said, then he took a swig of coffee.

Capt. Donahue spoke up. “Well, Colonel, if the two Communist giants go after each other, what do we do?”

“Sit back and watch, Captain,” Johnson nodded.

“That'd be great...” Guru nodded. Just after he said that, there was a large BOOM.

“What the hell was that?” Several people asked all at once.

“Construction blasting?” Colonel Johnson asked. “At this time of morning?”

Then there was another explosion, and what sounded like firecrackers off in the distance.

“Maybe that nut had friends,” someone said.

Then another Colonel, who'd been in Southeast Asia, yelled, “That's small arms fire! And this base is under attack!”

General Shoemaker came running in, half out of breath. “People, I'm only going to say this once: we are at war. The Soviets have attacked Alaska, there's Soviet and Cuban armor crossing the border from Tijuana all the way to the Gulf, and there's Soviet airborne in Colorado and New Mexico. Right now, your planes are being armed with what's available. Get to the border, and any armor headed north? Kill it. Man your aircraft!”

The mess emptied as aircrews and other officers headed to their posts or to get suited up. Colonel Johnson, Guru, and the others from the 335th ran like hell to their spaces, and frantically got suited up. “Ever think you'd go to war?” Tony asked.

“In Korea, or maybe Europe,” Guru said as he put on his G-suit and grabbed his helmet and oxygen mask.

On the way out, they literally ran into their squadron's supply officer, Maj. Paul Whitaker. He was a former WSO who'd been grounded due to a heart murmur, and he was wondering what was going on.
“What's going on?”

“Paul,” Colonel Johnson said as he went out the door. “Triple-order everything you can think of.”

“What the hell's happened?”

“Ivan and Fidel just crossed the border. So we're at war. Tell the supply sergeants to, uh, get whatever we need, by hook or crook.”

Whitaker understood; he'd been a F-4 WSO in 1972 during LINEBACKER I and II. “Gotcha, Colonel. Go get some.”

“Let's go, people!” Johnson yelled as the crews ran for their aircraft.

Guru and Tony ran for 515, “their” aircraft, while others intended to take the first armed and fueled aircraft they came to. As they ran, they saw two F-16s from the 474th TFW, the combat unit stationed at Nellis, take to the air. As they got to 515, they found their crew chief staring dumbfounded as ordnance people loaded a full drum of 20-mm ammunition for the F-4's Vulcan cannon, and loaded a pair of TER racks with three Mark-82 500-pound bombs apiece on the inner wing stations. “Sergeant,” Guru said as they reached the plane.

“Sir, what's going on?” Sergeant Calhoun asked in his Georgia drawl.

“Remember all those folks who said the Russians might come across the Rio Grande?” Tony said.

Calhoun nodded. “Yes, sir....”

“They were right,” Guru said. “Got the starter cart?”

“All set, sir. But.. what, we're at war?”

“We are. Get ready for engine start,” Guru said as he climbed the crew ladder and got into the pilot's seat.

Then Calhoun's training kicked in, and he helped both Guru and Tony get strapped into their seats. The two crewers ran through what both thought was their fastest preflight ever, then they got the “start engines” hand signal from their crew chief. Both J-79 engines came to life, one after the other. As the engines warmed up, Colonel Johnson's voice came over the radio. “Okay, people, go in flights of four. Get to the border, find armor headed north, and kill it. Watch for MiGs, watch for SAMs, and watch for power lines if you get down low. Remember your training, stick to your wingmen, and we'll get through this. Go by call signs on the radio. Let's go.”

With that, Johnson's plane began to taxi, and Guru was right behind him. As they taxied, the crews noticed several more F-16 two-ships, and a couple of F-15s-presumably from the visiting 58th TFS, take to the air. They held short of the runway so that the armorers could pull of the weapon safety pins, and as they waited, the crews saw a strange sight: the Catholic Chaplain, standing next to the armorers, and he was giving the departing crews the sign of the Cross, and a absolution as they taxied onto the runway. “You Catholic?” Tony asked as he saw Guru snap a salute to the Chaplain.

“No, technically Episcopalian, but devout Agnostic. But today? We may need all the help we can get,” Guru observed as he taxied onto the runway, in the wing position to Colonel Johnson.

As they taxied, they saw a couple of helicopters orbiting. One was a UH-1N from the base, and another looked to be a civilian news chopper. Then, all of a sudden, a white smoke trail came from just north of the base, and the news chopper's tail came off as it was struck.

It tumbled to the ground in flames and exploded on impact “Oh, God...” Guru said. “Boss-”

“I saw it,” the CO responded. “All Chiefs, this is Lead. Grail, Grail, Grail. Combat takeoffs, no matter what.”

Before anyone could respond, the tower flashed a green light. Clear for takeoff.

“Let's go!” Johnson shouted, and he released his brakes and rolled down the runway. Guru followed, and both Phantoms rumbled into the air. And as they pulled up and away, toward Lake Mead, they saw another missile trail reach out towards them, but it missed. Then the UH-1 hovered over the launch area, and sprayed it with machine-gun fire.

After takeoff, the two Phantoms were joined by another pair, plus two F-16s and two F-15s. Colonel Johnson called the element leaders, and found out he was senior. “All right, follow us to the border. Kill any MiGs that get too close to us.”

“Copy that,” the F-15 leader, a brand-new Captain who had just graduated to element lead, said.” Let's go.”

“What are we waiting for?” the F-16 lead called.

The eight-ship then turned and headed into Arizona.


Over Arizona, 0810 Hours:


As the eight-ship headed south, towards the Phoenix area, everyone was either scanning the sky, or in the WSOs' case, watching their radar scopes. So far, everything they had picked up was civilian, but no one was taking any chances, because either the F-15s or F-16s went to ID the contacts.


A few minutes later, they approached the Phoenix area, and gave the airspace around Luke AFB a wide berth. The crews could see F-15s taking off, and several civilian airliners coming in to the traffic pattern for Sky Harbor IAP. So far, there were no signs of any enemy aircraft, but that could easily change. “Tony, try using that AM receiver on your radio. See if you can pick up anything,” Guru said.

“Gotcha,” Tony replied. He fiddled with the tuner, while Guru stayed on the squadron's own channel.

As they skirted Phoenix, the crews saw several civilian airliners landing. Evidently the FAA had ordered all civilian aircraft to land at the nearest airport, and a nationwide ground stop. That had only happened twice, during exercises in the 1960s. Now, the fighter crews saw a number of airliners, from commuter types to a 747, orbiting and waiting to land. And there were some F-15s circling above them. They also noticed a departure: a Arizona ANG KC-135 was getting airborne.

“Either SAC scrambled them or those guys took off on their own,” Tony called on the intercom.

“Yeah,” Guru said. “Anything on the radio?”

“Uh, got a station from Phoenix. They're telling people to stay off the streets, leave them clear for police, emergency vehicles, and the National Guard.”

“What you'd expect,' Guru said as they headed past Sky Harbor Airport. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, nobody can get in touch with either New York or D.C.,”

“What?”

“That's what the man said. And he was talking to a guy from their sister station in El Paso. That guy said there were Cuban tanks and troops in Downtown El Paso.”

Guru shook his head at the thought. “Lead, Guru.”

“Lead here, Go,” the CO replied.

“Boss, anything about that tanker?”

“Roger that. He came up on GUARD and offered to pass fuel to anybody who needed it.” Johnson said. “He also asked if we'd heard about Omaha.”

“What about it?”

“Flight, Lead. Omaha's gone. They took a nuke, a big one. Same thing for Kansas City.”

Mother of God....Tony thought. His old Academy roommate was from K.C., though the guy was now stationed in Hawaii, he did have family still there. “Boss, anything about D.C.? Or New York?”

“He didn't say,” the CO said. “Tuscon dead ahead. Watch for Hogs and SLUFs.” SLUFs meant A-7 Corsairs, and the Arizona ANG at Tuscon flew two squadrons. One a deployable squadron, the other handed RTU duty for the A-7 force, which was all ANG. The Hogs were the A-10s, and chances were, they'd be headed to wherever the armor threat was showing itself. And several A-10s were seen headed south, as well as a number of A-7s. “Follow I-19, people. That's where they're coming up. I'd bet money on it.”

The eight-ship headed south, and as they did so, activity began to pick up on their EW systems. “Lead, Surfer.” That was Capt. Sean “Surfer” Boyer, flying as Three. “Got a six coming up.” Surfer's call meant an SA-6 missile radar was up.

“Got it, Surfer,” the CO replied.

A call came in on GUARD: armor at Rio Rico, north of Nogales on I-19. “Boss, Guru. Looks like we've got a target.”

“Copy that. Eagles and Vipers, any MiGs come to the party, break 'em up. Rhinos, we got work to do.”

Both F-15 and F-16 leaders acknowledged, and the F-4s, who were called Rhinos on the radio, dropped down low. As they did, more SAM radars came up. “Got another six, and an eight,” Surfer called. Another SA-6 was up, and an SA-8 was there as well.

“And no Weasels,” Tony said to Guru. “Remember what they told you about the Israelis in '73?”

“Yeah. Same drill,” Guru said. That meant a low-altitude ingress, a quick pop-up to release the bombs, and get out low again. He looked ahead and saw A-7s and A-10s working Interstate 19, and Colonel Johnson led them past that strike area, and spotted some vehicles backed up on the freeway. Tanks and APCs by the look of them.

“Flight, Lead. One pass, south to north. Go in low, pop up, make your run, and get out. If you're hit, try Davis-Monthan or Tuscon International. Time to do what they pay us for.”

“Two copies,” Guru

“Three,” Surfer.

“Four, roger,” Capt. Keith “Yogi” Santelli.

“All right, let's go. Lead's in hot!” And Colonel Johnson led the 335th on its first attack mission of the war.


Down below, a Cuban motor-rifle battalion commander was having a fit. Though the initial push through Nogales had gone according to plan, the Mexicans had taken the lead, as they were exuberant about reclaiming what they felt had been stolen from them in the Mexican War back in 1846-48. But now, they were stopping every so often to loot, and hopes of a swift advance to Tuscon and seizing the Davis-Monthan air base complex were starting to fade, especially with the Americans' having reacted quickly, and the skies were now full of American aircraft. Suddenly, his political officer pointed to the southwest. “AIRCRAFT!”

Colonel Johnson made his pop-up, and rolled in on the target. He dropped his bombs, and got back low, calling, “Lead's off safe.”

Guru went in just as his leader made his pop-up. “Two's in!” He called, “Switches set?” Guru asked his backseater.

“All set,” Tony replied.

Guru grinned beneath his oxygen mask. He lined up several APCs in his pipper, then released his bombs. ”Two off target.” He pulled up after the bomb run, and headed north.

Unknown to him, the Cuban battalion commander was picking himself up after Colonel Johnson's run. A couple of BTR-70s had been ripped apart by bomb hits, and a few others had been flipped on their sides by near-misses. The Cuban Major was shouting orders to get trapped men out of their vehicles when Guru's plane flashed over. He never saw the Mark-82 that exploded near him......

Guru banked his F-4 around, trying to stay below 300 feet. “Well?”

“SHACK!” Tony called. “There's a few fireballs.”

“Three's in!” Surfer called. His F-4 was the first to draw fire, but he manged to drop his bombs into several T-55 tanks in the southbound lane, exploding a couple, and flipping another. “Three's off.”

“Four's in,” Yogi called. He put his bombs onto some more APCs, and he pulled away.

Guru was watching, as he turned his F-4 to the west to break an SA-6 trying to lock him up. Then he saw the missile track Yogi's F-4. The SA-6 blended with the Phantom and the plane fireballed. As it tumbled out of the sky, end over end and trailing fire, Guru and Tony saw the cockpit area had been blown off. “Oh, my God...” Guru said.

“Lead, Three,” Surfer called. “Yogi's down. No chutes.”

“I saw it, Three. Nothing we can do for them. Let's get the hell out of here,” Colonel Johnson called.

Oh, man, Guru thought. He'd had a RTU classmate die in a crash, but that was an accident in peacetime. Now, two friends, Yogi and Burner, his WSO, were gone. Just like that. Suck it up, Guru, he thought to himself. Won't be the last, he knew. “Right with you, Lead.”

“Copy, “ the CO replied. “Vipers, Eagles, on me. RTB, now.”

“Roger that,” the F-15 leader called. “We're all Winchester. Got several MiGs.”

“Sort it out later,” Johnson said as another F-4 flight came in. It was the Exec's. “Glad you guys could make the party. Free strike. Anything moving north that's painted green is a target.”

“Gotcha, Boss.”

“Watch for SAMs. We lost Yogi.”

“Will do.”

The lead flight formed up and headed north. The F-15s and F-16s joined on them, though when they got to where the KC-135 was, they found three tankers. And one was filling up an F-15, with his wingie waiting his turn. The two Vipers from Nellis broke off to get a drink for themselves, while the F-4s and F-15s headed back towards Nellis.

As they headed north, Tony kept fiddling with the radio. “Guru...radio says D.C.'s gone.”

“What?” Guru was incredulous when he heard that. “You sure?”

“Yeah. They're on the line with a station in Richmond, Virginia. They can see the mushroom cloud.”

“God almighty...”

“And New York....there's another fireball and cloud there.”

“Lead, Two...” Guru called.

“I heard, Two. Fight now, mourn later,” Colonel Johnson replied. “Everybody got that?”

“Two copies,” Guru replied.

“Roger, Lead,” Surfer said.

The crews were subdued as they headed back to Nellis. Losing Yogi was bad enough, but hearing that four of America's cities had been nuked? It was almost too much. But they had a job to do, and like the CO said. Fight now. Mourn the dead later.

When they got back to Nellis, they found that instead of chaos, there was organized chaos. They had to wait in the pattern while the runway was cleared; a FedEx DC-8 had put down there instead of McCarran International due to McCarran's pattern being full of aircraft trying to land, and the DC-8 was out of fuel. Then they were able to come in and land. As the F-4s taxied in, they noticed aircraft being loaded with weapons. And this time, they were going out fully loaded. F-4s, F-15s, F-16s, and F-111s from the 525th TFS from Cannon-they had come for the Flag, only now, they were going out to try and save their home base, as there was a tide of armor headed into New Mexico and West Texas, and all of it headed north. There were also some RF-4s there, from the Nebraska Guard at Lincoln, and they were no doubt in a foul mood. For once, Guru bet, they wished they had fighters instead of recon birds.

After they taxied to their area on the ramp, and shut down, the crews got ready to get out of their aircraft, but the crew chiefs told them no. “Hot refuel and rearm, sir,” Guru's crew chief told him. A fueling crew went right to work, and topped up the internal tanks and the two wing tanks. Then the ordnance crews came, with a dozen Mark-82s: six on a MER rack, and six on two TER racks. Plus two AIM-9s and two AIM-7s.

There was some more good news: this time they would have F-4Gs. Two Weasel Phantoms would meet them northwest of Phoenix, and give them the SAM-suppression stuff they needed. The same two F-15s would come with the Rhinos, and two more that had just landed would join them. Fully armed this time.

When the hot refuel and rearm was finished, Colonel Johnson came back up. “People, we've got mission codes. We're now Chevy flight. And we're going back to the border.”

“When?” Surfer called back.

“When they release us,” the CO replied.

They had been on the ground a half-hour when they got the call to start engines. The aircraft taxied to the end of the runway, and again, they saw the Chaplain giving departing aircraft the sign of the cross. “He's busy,” Guru observed.

“His job,” Tony noted. “Ready?”

“No, but let's get it over with,” Guru replied.

Then the tower gave them the green light, and the flight rumbled down the runway on their second mission, and it was only midmorning.

[Matt Wiser]

Part II:


Over Western Arizona, 0945 Hours:


Chevy Flight, with the four F-15s from Olds Flight, headed back towards the border. As they did, the crews saw several private planes or commuter airliners coming into the traffic patterns at Kingman and Prescott airports, looking for someplace, anyplace, to put down. “FAA's shut down the navaids.” Guru said.

“I noticed,” Tony replied. “No VOR or NDBs. Just TACAN for us.”

Then Guru noticed two smoky trails above and to the right. “Chevy Lead, Two.”

“Go, Two,” Colonel Johnson replied.

“Rhinos at One O’clock,” Guru said. “These our Weasels?”

“Stand by one,” the CO said. “This is Chevy Lead looking for Coors Lead. You guys the Rhinos at my One?”

“Chevy, Coors,” the F-4G flight lead called. “You found us. We can give you two Standard ARMs and two Shrikes, plus two Rifles.” Rifle meant AGM-65 Mavericks. They did have a good anti-radar missile, and an older one that was still effective-if used properly.

“Copy that,' Chevy Lead said. “Follow us to the border. We could've used you guys this morning.”

“Comin' in,' the Weasel leader said, and two more Phantoms joined the formation, now approaching the Phoenix area.

“Tony, anything on the radio?” Guru asked his WSO.

“Nothing good,” Tony said. “Ivan and Fidel blew through the border towns like it was nothing.”

“What else?” Guru asked.

“Uh...All the Guard and Reserve got Federalized, this station in Phoenix says.”

Nodding, Guru concentrated on flying the plane, and keeping his head on a swivel. That had been drummed into his head in the RTU, not that long ago. Then he saw several explosions in the air, and aircraft falling. “What the..”

“Flight, Lead,” Johnson called. “I see it. Stand by.”

Chevy Flight got closer, and they could see fighters slashing at what appeared to be transports. Then they recognized the fighters as F-15s, and the transports were An-12 Cubs and An-26 Curls. Several of each were now falling in flames, and several others had crashed, for there were columns of smoke rising from a number of crash sites.

“Looks like the good guys are winning this one,” Tony observed, as an An-12 fell off to their left. “What'd they think they'd do? Land at Luke or Sky Harbor and just take over?”

“Don't know,” Guru replied. “But some jumped. There's quite a few chutes.” And sure enough, there were numerous parachutes, and that meant some of the paratroopers had jumped.

“Flight, Lead. This ain't our fight. We got business near the border.” Johnson reminded the flight, and everyone acknowledged. And the Phantoms and their Eagle escorts headed south. They got close to Tucson, and everyone could see A-7s and A-10s taking off, and even Army AH-1s. An Army Reserve unit flew AH-1S Cobras out of Marana Airpark, and some of them were headed off to war. The crews could also see a couple columns of smoke rising from Tucson near both Davis-Monthan AFB and Tucson IAP, and something had happened.

“Wonder if they had gate-crashers like we did,” Guru wondered.

“No bet. That was a given,” Tony replied.

Then the RWR came up. “Picking up SA-6,” Guru said.

“Got it,” Tony said. “How do you want the bombs?”

“Everything in one go.”

“Coors Lead, Chevy Lead,” the Weasel leader called. “Time for us to go to work, fella.”

“Copy that,” Colonel Johnson replied. “Get those guys off the air.”

“Roger that,” Coors Lead said. “Got an eight coming up.” That meant an SA-8 launch vehicle, and the SA-8 was still a relative unknown. “And...Magnum!” Coors Lead called as an AGM-78 Standard-ARM missile came off his Weasel.

The big missile stampeded away from the F-4, and homed in on the threat.

To the south, a Cuban SA-6 battery was trying to lock up the incoming aircraft. In the Straight Flush radar vehicle, the crew's morale was high. They had already shot down an F-4 and two A-7s, and sent an A-10 back damaged, and the Cuban missilers were exuberant. Then they heard a WHOOSH, then all of a sudden, their radar track exploded around them......

“SA-6 down,” Guru said, checking his EW repeater.

“Magnum!” Coors Lead shouted. And another AGM-78 went off in search of a target. It found a nearby SA-8 vehicle and exploded it just as it fired at Coors Lead.

“Coors Lead is Winchester,” he called. That meant he was out of ordnance. “Coors Two, it's all yours.”

“Copy. Chevy Lead, want to go in? I'll cover you.”

“Roger,” Chevy Lead replied. “Buick Lead, Chevy Lead. Any MiGs?”

“That's affirm,” the F-15 leader called. “Got some Floggers inbound.” That meant MiG-23s.

“Get some, Buick,” Johnson said. “Chevy Flight, same drill. South to North.”

“Roger, Lead,” Guru replied.

“Three copies,” Surfer called.

Chevy Flight rolled in, with Coors Two right behind them. Then he called, “Coors Two, Magnum!” as a Shrike missile came off the rail, and tracked something down below. As it did, Coors Two said, “Rifle one, and two,” as he shot his two AGM-65s.

“Roger that,” Chevy Lead said. “Lead in hot.” And Colonel Johnson rolled in on some armor barely a mile south of where they had flown their first strike. He put his bombs right on some APCs, and several Cuban BTRs exploded. “Lead's off.”

Right after Johnson called off target, Guru rolled in. “Two's in,” he called. And he went down the chute, picking out some tanks near where the Colonel had planted his bombs. “And...HACK!” Guru hit the pickle button, and a dozen Mark-82s came off the plane. He rolled out level, and got back down low. “Two's off safe.”

Guru's bombs landed among several T-55 tanks, and two of the beasts took direct hits. Several others fireballed as near-misses sent hot shrapnel into their external fuel tanks, on the rear decks of the tanks, and those exploded. And one of his bombs even flipped over a T-55.

“Three's in,” Surfer called as he rolled in, with the second Weasel alongside him. The F-4G then shot off his last Shrike as a ZSU-23 AA vehicle came up, and the Shrike found the Shilka's Gun Dish radar and exploded both the radar and the vehicle. While that was going on, Surfer found some Cuban 122-mm SP guns for his bombs, and Mark-82s rained down on the battery, exploding a couple of the 2S1 SP guns, and also taking out several ammo trucks, which set off sympathetic detonations as their ammunition exploded. “Three's off, and got some secondaries.”

“Roger that, Three,” Johnson said. “Let's get north. Buick Lead, form on me and RTB, now.”

“Copy that, Chevy Lead. Splash six Floggers,” the F-15 leader called.

“Good kills, Buick,” Johnson replied. “Coors, thanks for the help.”

“Anytime, Chevy, We're going to RTB. See you guys later.” And the two F-4Gs headed to the northwest, back to George AFB to refuel and rearm.

Chevy Flight and its escorts had their egress to the northeast, and as they approached Interstate 10, they saw a Boeing 727 ahead, inbound to Tucson. The white with blue trim paint job meant Republic Airlines and it was clear this guy was trying to get his plane and passengers on the ground. Then Buick Lead yelled on the radio. “He's got MiGs on his tail!”

“Republic 727, this is an F-4 at your Ten O'clock. You have hostiles behind you,” Colonel Johnson called on GUARD (121.5). There was no answer. “Buick Lead, get some.”

“Copy that!” Buick Flight hit their burners and charged in.

“Chevy Flight, let's go. Back up the Eagles.” Lead called.

Guru armed his two AIM-9s and followed his CO in.

Just as the F-15s got in AIM-7 range, the 727 took two missile hits to the tail and port wing, and the plane rolled left, then plunged down to earth, his tail and left wing on fire. The 727 crashed north of I-10, and exploded in a huge fireball.

Enraged, the F-15s took shots with their remaining AIM-7s, as the MiGs were now identified as MiG-21s. Two of the MiGs took Sparrow hits and exploded, as the Eagles got into a turning fight with the MiGs. One of the MiG-21s took a Sidewinder hit and blew up, while the last MiG tried to run south. He didn't get far, as Buick Four lined up a gun shot and sprayed him with his 20-mm Vulcan gun. The MiG fell, trailing fire, and the pilot ejected.

“Break off, Break off,” Buick Lead yelled. The four F-15s orbited as the MiG driver's chute descended, and several cars and trucks on the Interstate stopped. Once the pilot was down, the F-15s rejoined the F-4s.

Down below, about fifty motorists on both sides of I-10 had pulled over as they saw the 727 crash and the dogfight that followed. Several truckers picked up tire irons and crowbars, and ran for the downed pilot. One of them was ex-Air Force, and recognized the last MiG-21 as the F-15 shot it down.

The MiG's pilot was quickly surrounded by the motorists, and he was set upon by the crowd. He was quickly dragged to a nearby pickup, tied to the bumper, and dragged behind the truck. After that, he was strung up from a tree next to the freeway.

As the F-15s rejoined the F-4s, Colonel Johnson got on the radio. “Who were the MiGs?”

“Chevy Lead, didn't see much. They weren't Russians, or Cubans. They had FAS on the side.”

“Sandinistas?”

“Maybe,” Buick Lead replied. “Couldn't tell for sure.”

The flight headed back north in silence, and an hour later, they were back in the Nellis traffic pattern. Departing aircraft had priority, as no one waiting had battle damage. Soon, they were cleared, and Chevy and Buick flights landed. They taxied to their area on the ramp, and after the F-4s shut down, the crew chiefs came out with crew ladders. “Lieutenant,” Sergeant Calhoun said. “You've got a half-hour, sir.”

“Thanks, Sergeant,” Guru said as he took off his helmet. One thing he noticed about his crew chief, he was packing a sidearm. “Where'd you get that?”

“They're passing them out to all air and ground crew. Just in case those Spetsnatz try it again.”

“That's who it was?” Tony asked as he got out of the rear cockpit.

“Yes, sir. At least, that's what the word is.” Sergeant Calhoun said. He was packing a S&W .38 in a holster on his belt.

“All right, Sergeant, 515's still truckin'. No gripes. And no battle damage,” Guru said as he climbed out of the cockpit. And Colonel Johnson came over. “Boss.”

“Good work, both of you,” he said, putting out his hand.

“Thank you, sir,” Guru said, and Tony seconded it, shaking their CO's hand.

“Surfer, good work, you and Jasper.” Johnson said.

“Thanks, Colonel,” Surfer replied

Then a crew van came up, with Major Keith Pollard, the Ops Officer. “Colonel, got some sandwiches and drinks for you guys, and some other stuff.”

The crewers went over to the van, and picked out what they wanted, plus some bottled water. “What have you got for us, Major?” Johnson asked.

“Here's some maps of the border area, and a frag order,” Pollard said. “Free strike again, though head for Sierra Vista: the Army's holding the Cubans there, but they want some fast movers.”

“Will do,” the CO said. “What are we getting?”

“First, Java and Raven need a element: their wingie's radar went down, and the maintenance guys are working on that. They're yours if you want a four-ship again.”

“Tell 'em to come with us,” Johnson ordered. That meant Capt. Bob Lockwood and 1st Lt. Steve Matheny would be joining the flight for now. Ordnance?”

“Two birds get Rockeyes, two get Mark-82s,” Pollard said.

“All right, Major,” Johnson said. “Thanks.”

“Sir,” Pollard said, as he went looking for the XO's flight, which was the next on his list.

Then Lockwood and Matheny came over. “Boss.”

“Java,”

Guru whispered to Tony. “How'd he get his call sign?”

“He drank coffee like a fish in UPT. So guess what?”

“I get it.”

“Get something to eat, hit the latrine, and get ready to go back out,” Johnson said.

The crews dug into the sandwiches and bottled water Pollard had left for them, while the ordnance crews armed their aircraft. They noticed that the element leaders had the Mark-82s, while the wingmen had the CBUs. “Guess we'll be looking for some armor,” Java said to Guru.

“Looks like it,' Guru replied.

After they finished eating, the crews hit the latrines, then came back out. Colonel Johnson was waiting by his aircraft for them. “Okay, we're headed for Sierra Vista. The Army's holding off the Cubans there, and they need more fast-movers. One pass only, and get north as soon as you can.”

“Any F-15s or Weasels?” Surfer asked.

“Both. F-15s are Cobra Flight, and they go with us. We meet the Weasels near Phoenix again. Call sign is Michelob,” said the CO.

“Why do the Weasels always use beer for their call signs?” Guru asked.

“Ask them,” the CO said. “Any other questions?”

“How many more?” Tony asked.

“Don't know myself,” Johnson admitted. “Maybe after this one, we can have an hour or so to rest before going back out.”

“Maybe,” Guru deadpanned.

“To be wished for, Lieutenant,” the CO said. “Anything else?' No one said a word. “Okay, mount up and let's go.”

The crews went to their F-4s and mounted their aircraft. After a rushed preflight and engine start, they taxied to the runway, third in line behind a flight of F-111s and a flight of F-16s loaded for air-to-ground. When it was their turn, they found the Chaplain there again, and the crews saluted him as they taxied for takeoff. Again, the tower flashed a green light, and the F-4s rumbled down the runway and into the air.


Over North Central Arizona, 1155 Hours:



Chevy Flight, with their F-15 escorts, was flying south of Flagstaff, headed southeast at 6,000 feet AGL. As they flew, they could see some civilian aircraft trying to land at Flagstaff airport, obviously general aviation or commuter airliners. So far, their radar scopes were clear, and hopefully, they would stay that way until they got to the border.

“Tony, anything on the radio?” Guru asked his backseater.

“Got a Flagstaff station. They're repeating what's coming out of ABC News in L.A. Something's happened in Orange County, they said.”

“What kind of 'something'?”

“Riot of some kind,” Tony replied.

Great, Guru thought. “Scope clear?”

“So far,”

The flight kept heading southeast, then made a slight turn over Payson, East of Phoenix, the F-15 leader made a call.

“Chevy Lead, Olds Lead. Rhinos at nine O'clock.”

“Copy that,” Colonel Johnson called. “Rhinos at my nine, is that Michelob Flight?”

“You found us,” Michelob Lead replied. “Got two Standards and two Shrikes to play with.”

“Any HARMs?”

“Not us, but some of the guys went out with 'em.”

“Copy that, Michelob Lead. Join the party.”

The two F-4Gs formed up and followed behind Chevy Flight's four F-4Es, and the strike package headed on south, towards I-10. As they did, several more civilian aircraft appeared on their scopes, and the F-15s went ahead to check them out. As well as warning them about MiGs.

When the flight reached I-10, an Air Force ground FAC came up on the radio. “Chevy Flight, this is Covey Two-one. Authentication Alpha Six November.'

“Covey, Chevy Lead. Tango Four Bravo.” Colonel Johnson replied.

“Roger that, Chevy. Got a new tasking for you. Go to U.S. 191 north of Douglas. The Army's waiting on 191 for the bad guys. Kill anything painted green that's headed north.”

“Covey, what about Sierra Vista?”

“Army's taken care of that, Chevy. Hit anything on 191 from McNeal south to Douglas.” Covey replied.

“Copy that, Covey. Flight, Lead. Let's go.” Colonel Johnson radioed. And the flight headed for U.S. 191.


South of McNeal, Arizona, 1305 Hours:

Chevy Flight approached McNeal from the east, and then flew south, paralleling U.S. 191. As they did, they began picking up SAM radars. “Chevy, Michelob. Got a six and an eight.”

“Copy that, Michelob Lead,” Colonel Johnson said. “Get some.”

“Roger that,” came the reply, and the two F-4Gs broke formation and headed in. Then the Weasel leader called, “Magnum!” and an AGM-78 shot away from the lead F-4G. The call came again, this time from Michelob Two, and another Standard-ARM shot off towards a target.

Down below, a Cuban SA-6 battery was trying to lock up the inbound aircraft, and nearby was their mobile P-40 (Long Track) radar. Just as the Cubans were about to get lock, both ARMs came in, exploding the Straight Flush missile radar, and the Long Track vehicle.

“Six is down. And the air-search is off,” Michelob Lead radioed.

“Copy that. Chevy Flight, stand by. Two, with me. Three, you and Four find the rear of this column and hit that. See if we can't block the road,” radioed the CO.

“Copy, Lead,” Guru responded.

“Roger that,” Surfer replied.

Then another Magnum call came over the radio. One of the Weasels had picked up an SA-8 signal and sent another AGM-78 after it. The signal abruptly ceased.

“The other eights have dropped off,” Guru noted.

“Fine with me,” Tony replied. “Set it up?”

“Gotcha. Everything in one pass.”

“You got it, buddy.”

Chevy Lead and Chevy Two had the Rockeye CBUs, while Three and Four had Mark-82s. And Chevy Three found his target first. “Three's in hot!”

“Copy that, Three. Lead's in!” And Colonel Johnson rolled in and laid his Rockeyes on a number of supply trucks. As he pulled away, he was rewarded with several secondary explosions, as trucks carrying either fuel or ammunition exploded. “Lead's off target.” Then it was Guru's turn.

“Two's in hot!” Guru called. He rolled in, and lined up on some trucks just behind where Lead had dropped his load. “Steady, steady.....HACK!” And a dozen Rockeyes came off of 515. “Two's off.”

Below, a Cuban rear-services Major was having a professional fit. The mixed brigade of Cubans and Mexicans had halted near the town of McNeal, and word had it that the lead battalion, Mexicans, had stopped to loot once again. They'd done the same down in Douglas after crossing the border, and getting the Mexicans to get back in their vehicles and head north had taken half the morning. And a few executions, if the rumor mill was correct. Then one of his Sergeants shouted, and he looked to the rear, and saw two F-4 Phantoms making a bomb run on the rear of the column. Fireballs of exploding vehicles blended with bombs going off, and to his disgust, none of the Strela shoulder-fired missiles launched by the motor-rifle troops tracked the departing aircraft. Then another Phantom came over, and attacked the front of the column with cluster bombs, and not just vital fuel and ammunition carriers, but a couple of the BRDMs that were helping to protect the column went up as well. Then he heard another F-4, and he barely had time to see it depart when more CBUs rained down on his location. Several of the bomblets landed on his UAZ-469 jeep, exploding it-and everyone in it.....

“GOOD HITS!” Tony shouted. “We've got secondaries!”

Guru turned his head, and caught a quick glance of the convoy. Numerous vehicles were burning, and he saw several explode in oily fireballs. “Those fuel trucks?'

“Had to be,” Tony replied.

“Lead, Two. Where are you?”

“Chevy Flight, Lead. Meet up over Benson on I-10.” The CO replied.

“Roger that, Lead.”

“Three copies,” called Surfer.

“Four,” Java said.

“Olds Lead, Chevy. Copy my last?”

“Roger that. Sky's clear. No bandits.”

“Roger. Michelob?”

“Still got one Standard left. No radars up,” replied Michelob Lead.

“Form up and let's egress,” Chevy Lead called.

A few minutes later, the package reformed over Benson, east of Tucson on I-10. “Chevy Three, how'd it go?” Colonel Johnson asked.

“Good hits, Lead,” Surfer replied.

“Four had good hits,” Java added.

“Copy, all,” Lead said. “Olds, on us. Michelob, clear to RTB. Chevy, time to RTB.”

“Roger, Chevy. Be glad to work with you guys later,” Michelob Lead called, then the Weasels broke off and headed back to George.

Chevy Flight headed north, and as they went towards the tankers east of Phoenix, they saw several explosions on the ground near Davis-Monthan “What were those?” Java asked.

“No idea, Four,” Lead replied.

In 515, Tony turned his radio to a Tucson station. “Lead, Two. You won't believe this.”

“Two, what is it?”

“Those were Scuds!” Tony called.

“Oh, boy,” Guru said. “Who said?”

“Davis-Monthan,” Tony replied. “They had several this morning, all Scuds aimed at the base, but they keep missing.”

Guru swore. “Hope we don't have to go hunting for those.”

“Yeah. They'd be shootin' and scootin',” Tony said.

“If we get that call, we'll find a way,” replied the Colonel. “Let's head for the tankers.”

Chevy Flight joined up on the KC-135s, and now, there were four tankers up, and the F-4s formed up on one pair of tankers, while the F-15s took the other pair. They took on enough fuel to get back to Nellis, then headed northwest. Passing Phoenix, the crews could see where numerous aircraft had crashed, and at both Williams AFB and Sky Harbor IAP, there were airliners sitting on the tarmac at both fields.

“Anyplace in a storm,” Guru told his backseater.

“Yeah. Can you blame 'em?” Tony replied.

Guru frowned underneath his oxygen mask. “After what we saw on the last one?” He said, recalling the 727 shootdown. “No. Anything on the Phoenix radio?”

“They're saying there's Cuban paratroopers, and the National Guard and some Marine Reservists are engaging. Folks are to stay clear of several areas.”

“Cubans digging in?”

“You got it?”

The flight continued towards Lake Mead, and when they arrived over the lake, two F-5Es from one of the Aggressor squadrons came to check them out. It was strange, seeing the F-5s, with their Soviet-style markings and live AIM-9s on their wingtip missile rails. Nobody wanted to think of the reception they would've gotten if they had been Russians. After calling the tower, the flight was told to wait, as several outbound flights were about to depart, then Chevy Flight and two others were cleared to land in order. After taxiing to their ramp area and shutting down, the crews got out of their aircraft. And they found the XO waiting. “Colonel,' Major Scott Crenshaw said. “Want to take an hour or two? Because you guys look like you could use a couple hours' down time.”

“Anyone using the briefing room?” the CO asked.

“Other than to take a nap? No, sir.” Crenshaw replied. 'You guys ate before the last one?”

“We did.”

Colonel Johnson nodded. 'The next XO who's not acting like a mother hen-”

“Will be the first,” Crenshaw finished. “If you don't mind my saying, you guys look beat.”

“So do you, sir,” Guru said. “If you don't mind my saying.”

'I've only had two missions. You guys have had three. I'm going out in twenty, so....”

“I get it,” Guru nodded. Right now, he didn't care about whether the CO or XO wrote him up. Because he needed a nap.

“Guru's right, Major,” the Colonel said. “You look a little beat, but if you think you can handle it...”

Crenshaw looked past the four crews, where his own WSO was holding up a thermos. “All I need now is some coffee, Boss. I'll take a break after this one.”

“Okay, Major. Let's tell the intel folks what we saw and did, fellas, then let's flake out for an hour or two.” After going in, and debriefing all three missions with Capt. Danielle Lambert, the Squadron Intelligence Officer, the crews went into the briefing room, found chairs, and simply fell asleep.

[Matt Wiser]

Finale:


Nellis AFB, NV: 1335 Hours:


“Guru. Guru! WAKE UP!”

Lieutenant Wiser opened his eyes. “Huh, what?” He saw Tony standing over him with a cup of coffee. “Time to get up. Wheels up in fifteen minutes.”

Guru nodded as he stood up. He saw the CO and his WSO, plus the others in the flight either getting up or already up. “How long?

“About an hour and a half,” Tony replied. “XO's still out.”

“Any news? And I imagine all of it's bad.”

“There's still a fight around El Paso, but the Russians and Cubans are probably going around. They're headed for San Antonio and Corpus Christi, and they're pouring across the Rio Grande like a tidal wave,” Tony said. “There were some more nukes in the Dakotas, though.”

“Missile silos?” Guru asked, draining the coffee cup.

“Launch control centers is what's going around.”

Nodding, Guru looked at his watch. “Great.”

“And George Bush is now President. Reagan didn't get out of Washington, apparently,” Tony said.

“Nothing we can do about that,” Guru said. “What's on our plate?”

Colonel Johnson answered that question. “Back to I-19 people. Free strike. Seems the Cubans and Mexicans-yeah, Mexicans, have stalled because of all the air coming down on them. They're sticking to the roads, and we're going to make them pay for that.”

“Ordnance, Boss?' Surfer asked.

“We'll find out when we get to the flight line. Hit the latrine if you need to, then let's go.” Johnson said.


The crews headed out to the flight line, and found that they had another anti-armor loadout. This time, everyone had the Rockeyes, plus two AIM-9s and two AIM-7s. “No ECM pod?” Java asked.

“They're still getting those out of storage and running tests,” Colonel Johnson said. “Maybe tomorrow.” He looked at the flight crews. “Okay....Buick Flight will be with us for MIGCAP, and Olympia Flight will be out of George. They'll meet us west of Phoenix. Questions?”

Guru raised his hand. “Yeah, Colonel. What's the deal with Phoenix?”

“Good question. Stay away from Luke's traffic pattern. And anywhere near Phoenix? Stay above 5,000 feet AGL. Not just the Cubans, mind, but our own people-lots of armed civilians taking shots at anything that flies. So stay safe, and avoid the area unless you have to divert to Luke or Williams.” Colonel Wiser looked at the crews. “That answer your question, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, chances are, we'll have one more today. Then the maintenance folks need to get us ready for tomorrow. Because chances are, this is going to be a long war.” He looked around. “Anything else?” Heads shook no. “All right, mount up and let's go.”

The crews went to their aircraft and did their preflight walkarounds, then they mounted their aircraft. As they went through the cockpit preflight, Guru told his backseater, “Want to bet the RTU instructors would be failing all of us today for rushing the preflight?”

“Failing a light colonel?” Tony quipped. “That, I'd love to see.”

Sergeant Calhoun, 515's crew chief, gave the “Start Engines” signal, and first, one, then both J-79 engines came to life. Then Guru followed his squadron CO, taxiing out, and just as in the morning, the Catholic Chaplain was waiting as the aircraft halted at the runway so that the armorers could remove the weapon safeties. Then, again, the tower gave clearance for takeoff with a green light, and Chevy Flight rumbled down the runway and into the air.


Over Western Arizona: 1425 Hours:


Chevy and Buick Flights headed south over Arizona, between Kingman and Wickenburg, and they fully intended to give the Phoenix area a wide berth. By now, the WSOs were watching their radar scopes, while the pilots maintained their visual scanning. “Anything?” Guru asked Tony.

“Everything shows friendly on IFF,” Tony said.

Then Java called, “Rhinos at Three O'clock.”

“Roger that,” the CO said. “Rhinos at my Three, you Olympia Flight?”

“Roger that. You must be Chevy,” Olympia Lead called. “Two Weasels comin' your way. Got two HARMs and two Standard-ARMs, each airplane.”

“Copy,” Chevy Lead radioed. “Come on and join the show.”

The two Weasel Phantoms joined the package, and as they headed south, the crews saw several F-15 flights from Luke orbiting west of Phoenix, and some smoke clouds still coming up.

“Anything on the radio, Tony?” Guru asked.

“Just a sec....okay. They're asking people to stay away from the Goodyear Airport, Glendale Municipal, and the towns of Maricopia and Mobile. That's pretty much where the Cubans are.”

“And the Army's coming?”

“You got it. I-8 and I-10 are open to military traffic only.”

Nodding, Guru concentrated on flying the airplane. It wasn't long until they were getting close to the Tuscon area, and what looked like a smoke cloud coming from a golf course. “Let me guess: a Scud landed on that golf course.”

“Man, that's a big divot,” Tony said.

“Hey, Lead,” Java called. “What's the penalty for a Scud on the course?”

Though he was of a mind to tell Java to knock the chatter off, Colonel Johnson knew that some humor was a good thing, after everything that had happened today. “Java, I think you just play around. Okay, people, time to get serious. I-19 ahead. And there's Hogs and SLUFs headed in.”

The package followed the A-10s and A-7s down the Interstate, and sure enough, the Weasels picked up radar emissions on their APR-47 “sniffer” gear. “Got some SAMs and an air-search radar, Chevy Lead. Want those to go away?”

“Get some, Olympia,”

The two Weasels headed in, and then, one, then two, “Magnum” calls came over the radio as HARM missiles went in search of SAM or air-search radars. And an SA-6 and an air-search radar went off the air. “Got a couple of eights coming.” That meant SA-8 Geckos, and unlike the SA-6, they had the missiles and the radar on the same vehicle. “Olympia Two, “Magnum!” And a HARM and a Standard-ARM went off in search of targets.

Near Tubac, a Cuban air-defense officer was wondering what was happening. His pre-invasion briefing had assured all senior commanders that their air force, and special-operations teams, would make sure the Yanquis' aircraft would stay on the ground. Seeing A-7s and A-10s all morning, with occasional F-4s and Cobra attack helicopters, showed what that promise had been made of.

Now, with two interstate bridges over a small riverbed blown, and the engineers stuck in a traffic jam that led all the way back to the border, this mixed force of Mexicans and Cubans was now stalled, and highly vulnerable to air attack. The imperialists had been over them all day, and losses to their aircraft had been horrendous. He was now sitting in a 9K33 (NATO SA-8) missile vehicle, and it was only transmitting intermittently due to those insidious anti-radar missiles the Americans always seemed to have. Then the senior operator turned on the radar again, only to see a target appear, then make a turn. Suddenly, there was a WHOOSH overhead, then an explosion. The vehicle, and its occupants, were shredded by the 214-pound warhead of an AGM-78 going off....

“Any guns down there?” Chevy Lead asked.

“Negative,” Olympia Lead replied. “Still got a HARM and a 78 left.”

“Copy that. Chevy Flight, on me. Time to go to work.” And Colonel Johnson rolled in on the armor stuck behind two blown bridges. “Lead's in hot!” The CO rolled down the chute, and laid his Rockeyes on several T-55 tanks, and as he pulled out and away, several of the tanks fireballed. “Lead off target.”

“Two's in!” Guru called. “Tony, set it up: everything at once.”

“You got it, buddy.” He worked the armament switches. “You're set.”

“Copy that and hang on.” Guru rolled in, and he saw where the CO had put his CBUs. He chose several tanks and APCs just south of that, and came in. “Steady, and HACK!” He called, pushing the pickle button, and a dozen Rockeye CBUs came off his F-4. “Two's off.”

“Three's in!” Surfer called.

Hearing that as he pulled away, Guru turned his head, and saw his CBU bomblets going off. “Look at that!”

“We got secondaries!” Tony shouted. “Good hits, my man!”

“Three''s off target,” Surfer radioed.

“MAGNUM!” Olympia Two called, sending a HARM after a radar signal that came up, and a ZSU-23-4 AA vehicle exploded as the HARM missile found its radar dish.

“Bandits inbound,” Buick Lead called. “We got Fishbeds.” That meant MiG-21s.

“Roger that, Buick. Break 'em up,” Chevy Lead called.

“That's a roger. FOX ONE!” Buick Lead said as he fired a Sparrow missile.

“Four's in.” Java called. “Three's got good hits.” Java rolled in, and put his bombs on some artillery tracks that looked as if they were set up to fire. The rain of CBUs exploded a couple, and also took out several of their ammo trucks.” Four's off safe.”

“Copy that, Chevy. Meet up over Kitt Peak.” That was the location of the Kitt Peak Observatory.

“Two,” Guru called.

“Three,” Surfer.

“Four, roger,” Java called.

“Olympia Flight is now Winchester,” Olympia Lead radioed. “We are RTB at this time.”

“Good work, Olympia,” Chevy Lead replied. “Thanks for the help.”

“Anytime, Chevy.” the Weasel leader said. And those two Phantoms headed back to California.

“Chevy, Buick. Splash two Floggers, the rest turned tail,” said Buick Lead.

“Roger, Buick. Form on us.” Colonel Johnson said.

'The F-15s headed to Kitt Peak, and found the F-4s orbiting. The package reformed, and this time, no one needed the tankers. And the package headed back to Nellis, passing two more F-4 flights and two F-111 flights on their way to the fight. Just like the previous mission, when they got to Lake Mead, a pair of Aggressor F-5s checked them out. And to the F-4 crews' surprise, one of the F-5s had an empty Sidewinder rail.

“What'd he shoot?” Tony asked.

“Find out later, I reckon.” Guru said.

This time, they were the first in the pattern, and both Chevy and Buick Flights came in and landed. After taxiing and shutting down, the crews noticed some excitement. “What's going on?” Colonel Johnson asked one of the ground crew.

“Had a couple MiGs come by,” the sergeant replied. “The F-5s got one, and an F-16 got the other. Had a little air show about a half-hour ago.”

“Well,” Guru observed. “The Aggressors got somebody today.”

“That they did, Lieutenant,” Colonel Johnson said. “Come on. Let's do a quick debrief, then see what's next.”

After a quick debriefing with Captain Lambert, Chevy Flight got its next mission. It would be an hour, but they would be going out on their fifth mission of the day, and likely their last, as the maintenance people needed to get as many aircraft ready for the next day. The crews got a bite to eat, and caught some news. A TV set in the briefing room was set to the Vegas NBC station, and they were showing scenes from the outskirts of Washington, D.C. Things in Virginia were under control, due to a heavy presence of the Virginia National Guard, but across the Potomac in Maryland, Prince George's County was a mess. And hospitals from Richmond to Baltimore were busy treating casualties from the nuclear blast, not to mention those from the civil disorder.

“Looks bad,” Tony commented. “Anything about Kansas City?”

Major Pollard, the Ops Officer, said. “Not much. Other than there were several detonations.”

“And nobody from Omaha?”

“No. Message traffic says it was a big one. Twenty megatons at least.”

There was silence after that.


A few minutes later, Guru found a pay phone. He wondered if the long-distance lines were still up, or if they'd been taken over by the military. He took a chance, and dialed his Mom's home phone. There was a pickup. “Hello?”

“Mom, it's Matt.”

“Thank God! Where are you? Still in Vegas?”

“Can't say officially, but for now, yeah. I can't talk long. Just wanted to tell you I'm okay so far, and if you don't hear from me for a few days, or don't get a letter, it's because I'm busy.”

“Okay,”

“Mom-if something happens, the Air Force will tell you. So don't worry if I don't get in touch for a while. Let Grandma know and everyone else, and I'll stay in touch the best I can. Anything happen there?”

“In Auberry? No, but everyone in town is talking about forming some kind of posse. Lots of pickup trucks with guns, things like that.”

“And half the senior class at the high school wants to enlist.”

“They do.”

“Okay. Gotta go. Mom-I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Bye.” Guru hung up, and found Tony standing next to him.

“Calling home?” Tony asked.

“Yeah. My family's okay, and you might want to call your folks. No telling how long the long-distance lines will be available.”

Tony nodded, then managed to get his call through.

While Tony was on the phone, Guru went back to the Ops desk. He and Tony had been so busy, they hadn't even touched their bags. Then the CO came over. 'Boss.”

“Guru. What'd you do? Call home?” Colonel Johnson asked.

“Yeah, I did. Figured I may not have a chance for a while.”

The CO nodded sympathetically. “Don't blame you. I'll pass the word for people to try and get in touch. You know anyone in the nuclear sites?”

“No, sir,” Guru replied.

“Okay, but pass it on: the Red Cross is taking names, addresses, etc. They're going to help with refugees, and tracing relatives. Or, they'll try at least.”

Guru nodded, and Tony came over. “Well, Dad says that things are okay. Nothing happened, and get this: he heard on the radio that a RV company in Coburg has already offered their facilities to make whatever the military needs from them.”

“What's an RV company going to do?” Guru asked.

“They can install radios and other gear in some of 'em,” Tony said. “Or they can make other stuff-what's that eight-wheeled vehicle the Marines use now?”

“LAV-25s,” the CO replied. “Well, well....awful nice of them.”

“Yes, sir,” Tony said.

Then Major Pollard, the Ops Officer, came over. “Colonel, got your Frag Order. You guys are going back to I-19.”

“Again?” Surfer asked.

“Again,” the Ops Officer said. “The Army's getting close to that location, and the bad guys haven't pushed north of Tubac. Supply problems or whatever. Anyway, kill anything on the Interstate between there and Nogales.”

“Free strike?' Java asked.

“That's it, Captain,” Pollard replied. “Your birds are being armed right now, and Olds Flight will be your escorts. And your old pals from this morning, Michelob, will be Weasel support. And we should be getting EF-111s from Mountain Home tonight.”

“Those'll be good to have.” The CO observed.

An Ops NCO came up and gave Major Pollard a message. “Boss, two planes from the XO's flight are down. Well, one's down, the other had to land at Davis-Monthan. No further info.”

“All right, Major. Let me know when you get anything else.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, get your gear and mount up. Let's get this last one done,” the CO said.

After gearing up, the crews went to the flight line, and found they had the same load as the previous one: a dozen Rockeyes each airplane. After the preflight, they mounted their aircraft and started their J-79 engines. They taxied out, and the Chaplain was there again.

“He running on overdrive or what?” Tony asked as the armorers removed the weapon safeties.

“He'd probably say he's been recharged with power from above,” Guru noted.

Chevy Flight taxied onto the runway, and the tower flashed the green light. The F-4s rumbled down the runway and into the air, with their F-15s right behind them.


Over Western Arizona, 1620 Hours:


Chevy Flight had the meetup with the F-15s of Buick Flight, and was once again headed towards the border. Again, as they headed south, the WSOs were checking their radar scopes, while the pilots had their eyes peeled. If the Cubans could get MiGs as far north as Vegas, they could easily show up here.

“Anything?” Guru asked Tony.

“Negative on radar,” his GIB replied. “Radio's still going.”

“Phoenix again?”

“San Diego this time: they're saying the Mexicans got held up in National City, and the Navy's really laying it on them.”

“For once, the street gangs are on the good guys' side,” Guru noted.

“There's a first time for everything,” Tony quipped.

Guru nodded, then glanced right. “Lead, this is Two. Rhinos at our Three.”

“Copy that, Two. I see 'em,” Colonel Johnson said. “Michelob Lead, Chevy Lead. You guys comin' to the party?”

“Chevy Lead, that we are,' Michelob Lead replied. “Got two HARMs and two Standard-ARMs each airplane.”

“Michelob Lead, you have any pods?”

“That's affirm, Chevy Lead. Two 119 pods.” That meant the ALQ-119 ECM pod.

“Good. Until we get Spark Varks, that's all we'll get.” the CO said. “Form on us and let's go.”

The two Weasel Phantoms joined the formation, and preceded by a wall of Eagles from Buick Flight, the package headed south towards the border. Upon reaching I-8, the package turned southeast, and headed for I-19. As they got closer, the crews could see A-7s and A-10s orbiting, and Army AH-1s at work. Still, there were no FACs, and it was as it was briefed: Free strike.

This time, there were no radars yet up, and behind the two bridges, the crews saw multiple pillars of smoke, and that signified burning vehicles. Colonel Johnson called, “These guys have had it. Let's head south.” And the package continued following I-19, and it was a few miles south, between the towns of Carmen and Rio Rico, that they found targets. “Looks like a traffic jam down there.”

“Lead, that's as good a target as we'll find,” Surfer radioed. There were tanks, APCs, SP guns, and trucks, all backed up on the freeway or on nearby U.S. 89, which was paralleling the Interstate.

Then Guru called. “Picking up stuff on the EW.”

“Confirmed, Chevy Lead,” Michelob Lead said. “Got a six and a couple of eights.” That meant SA-6 and SA-8 SAMs.

“Roger that, Michelob. Get some,” Colonel Johnson called.

“Copy. And....Michelob Lead, MAGNUM!” First one, then another, HARM missile came off of Michelob Lead.

The two HARMs followed the Cuban radars to their targets, and one of them found an SA-6 Straight Flush radar track, exploding it just as a pair of SA-6s were fired from a launcher vehicle. The two missiles launched “went dumb”, and flew away harmlessly. The other HARM found an SA-8 track, and it, too, exploded as it launched a missile at an F-4.

“Picking up a Zoo.” Michelob Two called. “MAGNUM!” This time, a single AGM-78 stampeded away from the Weasel, and the Standard-ARM followed the Gun Dish radar signal to its source, and exploded the ZSU-23.

“Thanks, Michelob,” Chevy Lead radioed. “Chevys, one pass, south to north. Chevy Lead in hot!”
And Johnson's F-4 rolled in on the vehicles on the freeway. He made his run, and a dozen Rockeye CBUs came off his aircraft. “Lead's off target.”

His CBUs tore into a number of BTR-60 APCs, and several of them exploded from CBU hits to their fuel tanks.

“Good hits, Lead,” Guru called. “Chevy Two's in hot.” On the intercom, Guru called to Tony. “All set?”

“All set. Everything in one go.” Tony replied.

Guru rolled in, and picked out some supply vehicles that were stuck behind some tanks. He selected the supply tracks, and lined them up in his pipper. “Steady, steady.....and HACK!” He hit the pickle button, and a dozen CBUs came off the racks. “Two's off target.”

Below, the Cuban soldiers were cursing two things. First, the Mexicans, for they were blaming their Mexican comrades for the delay, since they appeared to be more interested in looting than in continuing the advance. Then, like soldiers everywhere, they were also cursing their superiors, who seemed to be doing nothing about the bridges down up ahead. Then, Colonel Johnson's F-4 made its run, and the Cubans ran for cover as several APCs fireballed. Some of them picked themselves up, only to see a second F-4 come in. By now, the Cubans were dreading the Rockeyes and they saw the CBUs come off Guru's plane, and they scattered. Over a dozen trucks and even a couple of T-55 tanks were hit by the Rockeyes, exploding fuel and ammunition.

As he pulled away, Guru looked back. “Look at that!”

“Good hits!” Tony shouted.

“Good job, Two,” Colonel Johnson said.

“Three's in,” Surfer called.

“Michelob One, MAGNUM!” And Michelob Lead fired an AGM-78 at a radar that had come up. The Standard-ARM went after another SA-8 vehicle, and the SAM track exploded when the missile's 214-lb warhead found the missile radar.

“Three's off,” Surfer called as he pulled up and away.

Guru smiled underneath his oxygen mask, then he saw it. “Three, Two. GRAIL! GRAIL! GRAIL!” That call meant SA-7 or similar shoulder-fired SAMs.

“Copy that,” Surfer replied, banking his F-4 into a tighter turn. And two Grail missiles flew past his aircraft.

“Four's in,” Java said as he rolled in. He saw where the missiles came from, and lined that area up. As he came in, he could see several trucks, and what looked like guns. No matter.....A dozen more Rockeyes came off his plane. “Four's off.” His CBUs tore apart a battery of ZU-23 towed AA guns that were frantically setting up, and ripped up a truck carrying an SA-7 team and their reload missiles.

“Chevy Flight, form on me at Kitt Peak. Buick, anything?”Colonel Johnson radioed.

“Negative, Chevy,” the F-15 leader replied. “Maybe we scared 'em off.”

“Roger that. Michelob?”

“Stand by, Chevy. MAGNUM!” Michelob Leader called. His last missile, an AGM-78, came off his aircraft, and found a ZSU-23-4 track, exploding it. “Michelob Lead is Winchester and near Bingo fuel.”

“Copy that. Thanks for the help.”

“Anytime, Chevy. Maybe we can do this again tomorrow.” And Michelob Flight peeled away and headed back to George AFB, while Chevy and Buick reformed over Kitt Peak.

Down below, at the Observatory, the staff and graduate students were watching the aircraft overhead. It seemed like every fifteen or twenty minutes, planes would use the peak as a rendezvous point. As this recent group of F-4s and F-15s headed off, an Army convoy arrived, with a mobile air-defense radar and a HAWK missile battery. They set up shop on a site that, only a day earlier, had been earmarked for a new radio telescope.

Chevy Flight then headed north, back to Nellis. As they approached Lake Mead, the radio chatter picked up. MiGs had been inbound, and an attack on McCarran International had been broken up.

“Where'd they come from?” Surfer asked.

“Baja would be my guess,” Guru said.

“Cut the chatter, people,” the CO ordered, and the crews knocked it off. They saw another fireball in the sky, and an aircraft crashing to earth. Then the Tower declared the pattern clear, and the two flights came in and landed.

After taxiing in and shutting down, Guru and Tony were animated, but also tired. “What were we supposed to be doing today?” Guru asked, and he felt drained as he did so.

“We were supposed to fly a couple of exercise hops,” Tony said. He, too, was drained. Five missions was enough today. But he knew they'd be back at it tomorrow.

Colonel Johnson came over. “How do you all feel?” For Surfer and Java and their crews had joined Guru and Tony.

“Drained, Boss,” Guru said. “Was it like this in Vietnam?”

“Nowhere close. Two a day, at most. Sometimes, just one,” Johnson said, recalling his 1972 tour in SEA.

Then Major Pollard came over with a somber expression on his face. “Colonel, bad news. The Exec's plane went down. He didn't get out.”

The news stunned the crews. “What?”

“Near McNeal. SA-13 they think. He went in with the plane, but Clapper got out. The Army manged to get him before the Cubans. He's okay, but Major Crenshaw....” First Lt. Cody”Clapper” Lyon was Crenshaw's WSO.

“He all right?' Tony asked. Clapper was one of his classmates in the RTU.

“Broken leg, and that's all I know about that,” Pollard said. “Peanut and Fender caught an SA-7 in their tailfeathers. They're down at Davis-Monthan. They need a Combat Repair Team to get 501 back in the air.”

“I'll see about getting a CRT, Major,” Johnson said. “That makes you Exec, by the way.”

Pollard's jaw dropped. “Sir-”

“You're Exec until you either get killed or I find somebody who can do it better. Who's now Ops?”

“Java, he's the senior assistant.”

“Captain, same drill. You're Ops Officer until either one happens. Clear?”

“As a bell, Colonel,” Java replied. But deep down, that was the last thing he wanted right now.

Then the maintenance officer came up. “Colonel, we should have sixteen at least for the morning. We've lost two, one's at D-M with battle damage-”

“I know, Major,” Colonel Johnson said.

“Yes, sir. And one here is still down with a radar that's Tango Uniform. And Supply is on its ass, as usual. They won't release the parts my people need.”

“I'll have a talk with the paper warriors.” Johnson said firmly.

“Colonel, with all due respect, you'll need fixed bayonets. They're still in peacetime mode.”

“Not after today, If I have anything to say. And the other two?”

“Minor battle damage. Looks like small-arms fire. They ought to be ready by morning. If not, Noon at most.”

Johnson nodded. “Okay. Let's debrief, and then I'll tear Supply a new hole. In person if necessary.”

After the debriefing, Colonel Johnson asked if people billeted off base were moving on base. Not yet, was the reply. So they were staying for the time being at the Hilton, which was now guarded by LVPD, Clark County SO, and some Nevada Guard who hadn't yet received deployment orders. After a reminder that the twelve-hour rule began at 1900, everyone was released for the day, and told to be back, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, at 0600. And that Las Vegas Boulevard for a mile in either direction from the base would be closed to all but military and military-authorized traffic, so that getting on base would be easier. Just show your ID at the roadblock, and then pass through the main gate.

This time, Tony drove, while Guru napped in the passenger seat. They got to the Hilton, passed through the LVPD roadblock, and went in to get something to eat.



Las Vegas Hilton, Rancher Steakhouse, 1800 Hours:

Lieutenants Wiser and Carpenter found a table and sat down. It had been a long day, and certainly not the day that anyone had expected. They had gone onto Nellis ready to face their first Red Flag, only to go to war for real. They had had their first taste of combat, and had lost friends and squadron mates. And both of them knew it would be the same tomorrow. But they had experienced something else: when they went into the restaurant along with several other members of the 335th and the 58th, the patrons and staff who saw them come in were clapping. And the manager came to tell them that now the Air Force was paying for their meals, something the AF personnel appreciated. They had just ordered when Capt. Morgan Donahue and 1st Lt. Scott Albright came in. “Guys,” Guru said.

“How'd things go with you guys?” Donahue asked.

“Could've been worse. Yogi and Pappy went down, and no chutes,” Guru said. “You?”

“We weren't in his flight, but we heard the XO go down. So the ops officer is now the exec?”

Tony nodded. “You got it. And Surfer's now Ops.”

“You guys work for him, now,” Albright said. It wasn't a question.

“That's it. You guys hungry?”

“Yeah, but we're waiting on my dad,” Donahue said. “He's an NTSB field rep at McCarran. He's had a busy day.”

“What?” Guru said as the waitress brought their dinner salads. “Another airliner shootdown?”

“No, but they're treating the MiG crash sites around here as accident sites. Nobody alive in D.C to tell them otherwise, and so...”

“And so, they're playing it by the book,” Guru finished. 'What's he think about this?”

“He thinks it's a bunch of crap,” Donahue admitted. “He's retired Air Force, and did accident investigation work before he retired.”

“And until somebody tells them otherwise...” Tony said.

“You got it.”

Albright took out a Vegas paper, the Las Vegas Review. “They've been putting out extras all day.”

“Let's see...” Guru said, and Albright handed him the paper. The headline screamed WAR! SOVIETS INVADE. “Nuclear attacks on Washington, New York, Omaha, and Kansas City. Soviets Invade Alaska, Cross Rio Grande. Cubans, Nicaraguans, and Mexicans Also Involved.” He went on. “Reagan Killed in White House, Bush Now President: Vows 'Fight to the Finish' Britain and Canada Attacked, China Struck by Nukes.”

“That's about it,” Tony said. “Caught glimpses of that on the news when we got back here.”

Then Donahue turned to the front of the restaurant, and saw a figure coming towards them. He waved. “That's Dad. See you guys tomorrow.”

“Will do.” Guru said.

The waitress came with their meals, and the two ate. When they were finished, there were still twenty minutes until the twelve-hour rule kicked in. “How about a beer?” Tony asked.

“Just what the doctor ordered,” Guru said. He waved the waitress over, and said, “Two beers.”

“What'll it be?”

“What do you have?”

“Bud, Bud Light, Michelob, Olympia, Coors, Sam Adams-”

“That's mine,” Guru said.

“Bud for me, Miss,” Tony said.

“Sure thing.” the young lady replied. She quickly came back with their order, and the two officers paid.

“So, Tony,” Guru said. “Besides being still alive, what'll we drink do?”

“How about absent friends? Because there's three empty chairs now in the briefing room.”

“Good idea.” And with that, the two friends and crewmates drank. When they were finished, the waitress came over.

“Refills?”

Both officers shook their heads no. “No thanks. We're flying in the morning,” Tony said.

“Well, you guys take care, and kill as many of those Commie bastards you can.”

“Do our best, Miss,” Guru said, and the two went into the lobby. They went into the gift shop and bought a paper each. One to keep to show to their kids some day. If they lived long enough to have any. Then they went by the entrance to the casino. “Look at that.”

“What?” Tony asked.

“That.” Guru pointed to the casino, which was still packed as if nothing had happened. “World War Three just started today, and nobody's left?”

“Just like on the Titanic,” Tony said. “They say there were guys still playing poker up until the water got to the first-class lounge.”

“Be glad you weren't here for the MGM Grand fire in '81,” a voice said. They turned, and it was the pit boss. “They found bodies still in front of the slot machines.”

The two AF officers shook their heads. “Crazy?”

“Maybe,” the man replied. 'You from Nellis?”

“Maybe,” Guru said. “We had our first combat today. And it won't be the last.”

“Do us all a favor,” the pit boss replied. “Get the sons-a-bitches. All of 'em you can.”

“We'll try,” Tony said.

Just then the WHOOSH of jets came over the hotel, and the rest of the Strip. “Those were fighters,” Guru said. “And they ain't landing at McCarran.” He ran for the front entrance, and Tony was right behind him. Just as they got outside, they saw a MiG-21 falling in flames, with an F-5 orbiting overhead. And a parachute coming down on Paradise Road in front of the Hilton.

“What the hell?” the pit boss asked.

“One of the Aggressors got a MiG,” said Guru. “Go find some LVPD or Guard. We want that pilot.” The pit boss nodded and went in search of the police. “Let's go see this chump.”

The MiG crashed on the west side of Paradise Road, in an empty lot where another hotel and casino was due to be built. And the pilot came down right in the middle of Paradise Road. Guru, Tony, and a couple of LVPD officers who'd seen the pilot come down were there to meet him. “Officer, what's your name?” Guru asked one Sergeant.

“Jim Brass.”

“Okay, Sergeant. This is a first for you as it is for us. We want him alive.”

“Will try,” Brass nodded. “But if he tries for a weapon...”

“Fair enough,” Tony said. The four converged on the pilot as he came down, and they rushed him as he tried to get out of his chute. The pilot tried to get up, but Tony tackled him. He'd been a defensive back at the AF Academy, and his old football skills came back. “You ain't going anywhere, Comrade.”

Guru, Brass, and Brass' partner came up, and both LVPD officers had their 9-mm pistols drawn. “He armed?” Brass asked.

Guru went over. “Got a pistol-looks like a Makarov,” he said, taking the weapon from the pilot's shoulder holster and throwing it aside. “And a survival knife,” he added. That he took and handed it to Brass' partner.

“Who is he?'

Tony turned the pilot on his right shoulder. “Cuban,” he said, indicating a Cuban flag patch.

“Get him up,' Guru said, and Tony and another LVPD officer, who just arrived, did so. “Boy, you picked the wrong place to come down.”

Then a jeep with some National Guardsmen arrived. They were Military Police, and they were part of the security around the Hilton, now that there were military personnel billeted there. “We'll take him off of you.” An MP sergeant said.

“Get him to Nellis,” Guru told the Guard Sergeant. See if the Security Police there will take him.”

The Sergeant saw the silver bar on Guru's shoulder. At least this AF officer wasn't an eager-beaver shavetail. “Yes, sir.”

Just then, Colonel Johnson arrived from the Hilton. He shook his head at his wing crew in the middle of the fracas. “You guys are off duty, and you're still involved.”

“War didn't end because we got off the clock, Colonel.” Tony said.

Colonel Johnson looked at him, then slowly nodded. “Well...I guess you're right about that. You two had better hit the sack shortly. We got a busy day coming at us tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” Guru said. They watched the Guard take the Cuban away, then went back inside the Hilton. And to no one's surprise, hardly any of the gamblers had left the casino. “You could've had a dozen MiGs crash outside and nobody would've left.”

“Ain't that the truth,” the CO said. “Okay, you two, find your room. Be on base at 0600.”

“Yes, sir.”

Guru and Tony went to their room on the seventh floor, and they found that there were Nevada Guard inside as well. They showed their ID to the MP there, then the two went to their room, and then and there, just decided not to turn on the TV. They just decided to hit the sack, for Colonel Johnson was right. It would be a busy day ahead. But at least they got through the first day.

[Matt Wiser]

Comments so far, fellows?