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Old 03-15-2020, 12:10 AM
Matt Wiser Matt Wiser is offline
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Location: Auberry, CA
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The flying day continues; some FNGs arrive:



335th TFS, Sheppard AFB, TX; 1215 Hours Central War Time:



Major Matt Wiser sat in his office, going over some papers. Why couldn't the paper-pushers leave those fighting the war to do their jobs, he wondered. The CO had no use for bureaucracy and those who inhabited that maze, and yet, he also knew that they kept the warfighters supplied so that they could go out and put the hurt on the bad guys. And yet, some of their memos reminded him how out-of-touch some of the paper-pushers were, for there was yet another memo criticizing the “excessive” expenditure of 20-mm ammo. Guru was half a mind to feed the offending memo to the shredder, but decided to keep it to show to General Tanner the next time the Tenth Air Force's Commanding General came by, or better yet, General “Sundown” Cunningham, the Vice-Chief of Staff of the Air Force. Scuttlebutt had it that General Cunningham was coming by after Thanksgiving sometime, and if Frank was still around, Cunningham was likely to kick the snobby major off base-and do some more ass-kicking to the bureaucrats when the CO showed the General the memo.

He had finished the papers and put what needed to go in his OUT box, when there was a knock on the office door. “Yeah? Come in and show yourself!”

Goalie came in, with two plastic bags and a carrier for drinks. “Lunchtime,” she said. “Barbeque chicken sandwiches with Cole slaw and corn on the cob. And lemonade.”

“Good,” Guru replied, taking his bag and opening the container inside. He opened the Styrofoam container, but before he ate, he said, “You're not going to believe this.”

“What?” His GIB asked as she got ready to eat.

“This.” Guru showed her the memo. “I'd like to give these guys a rifle and send them into the infantry.”

She read it and shook her head. “Lovely,” Goalie spat.

“Yeah,” Guru said. “Let's eat.”

As they ate, they discussed squadron-related matters, and then their previous mission came back up.
“We came close,” Goalie said in between bites. “That SAM trap was laid on pretty good.”

“It was,” Guru agreed. He had to respect an enemy's competence when called for. “Be glad ALQ-119 works against SA-11, and that somebody down there was trigger-happy.”

“And he probably earned himself a trip to a penal battalion.” Goalie let out a chuckle at that.

“Or a bullet in the back of the head,” Guru added.

“Either one's acceptable,” said Guru.


They had just finished lunch when there was another knock on the door. “Yeah?” Guru said. “Come on in and show yourself!”

The Exec, Mark Ellis, came in. “Boss, got a couple things for you, and heard about your SA-11.”

“Word travels fast,” Goalie observed, though she-like the others, knew it from the experiences of others, and some of those were not good.

“It does,” the XO admitted. “Any advice?”

“Unless you've got folks with antiradar missiles around-like Weasels or IRON HAND? Abort. Find yourself an opportunity target,” said Guru.

Ellis nodded. “Will do, Boss,” he said. “Got these for you.” He handed the CO a couple of papers.

“What's this?”

“Updated weather report. Storm's still coming in, right on schedule.”

“So we get our stand-down,” Guru noted. “What else is there?”

The Exec handed the CO another paper. “Newbies are here. They came in on a C-130 half an hour ago.”

“How many?”

“Two crews,” the XO said. “Only one of 'em is a vet, the rest are fresh from Kingsley Field.”

Guru nodded. Not what he wanted, but then again, how many other CO s were in the same boat? Wanting veterans and getting mostly newbies out of the RTU. Oh, well.... “They outside?”

“Yeah,” said Ellis. “You want to see 'em now, I suppose?”

“That I do, and tell me we've got billeting space?”

The Exec nodded. “We do, Boss. Want me to bring 'em in?”

“Go ahead,” the CO said.

Ellis opened the office door and waved the four new men in. All were in their dress blues with field caps, and they saluted the CO upon entering.

Guru returned the salutes, then got things off. “My name's Major Matt Wiser. All right, you're with the 335th Tactical Fighter Squadron, the Chiefs, or as some folks also add, with some pride, 'The Air Force's Bastard Orphans.' We're OPCON to Marine Air Group 11, and have been since the early days of the war. Second, you are now on a base at war, so we can dispense with the jumping up-and-down foolishness you learned at either the Academy, ROTC, or knife-and-fork. There is still a significant fixed-wing threat, a substantial TBM threat, and there's also Spetsnatz to worry about. So we're pretty informal around, here, everybody packs a weapon, and no need for snappy salutes or dressing up. Understood?”

“YES, SIR!” The four shouted.

I hope you do, the CO thought. He nodded at a Japanese-American Captain who was the senior of the four. “Captain...Hasegawa? Let's see your orders and personnel jacket.”

“Yes, sir,” Captain Terry Hasegawa said, handing that material to his new CO.

Guru scanned the Captain's file. “Impressive. ROTC, University of Hawaii. First in your class, then first in UPT.” That meant Undergraduate Pilot Training. “You asked for F-4s?”

“Yes, sir,” Hasegawa replied. “Dad flew F-4s in Vietnam: LINEBACKER I and II, so...”

“And so you did,” Guru finished. He read on. “You were with the 35th?” He meant the 35th Tactical Fighter Wing-the Wild Weasels.

“Yes, sir,” the Captain nodded. “Flew with the 563rd TFS. E models in the Hunter-Killer team.”

Goalie recognized it at once. “You're following up the Gs after they shoot their HARM or Shrike, with dumb bombs or CBUs.”

“That's right. What got me was an SA-11. Dislocated shoulder and a broken leg, with some first-degree burns. GIB didn't get out.”

“Where?” Guru asked.

“Near Vaughn, New Mexico, Day two of PRAIRIE FIRE,” Hasegawa said. “Some rancher and his son found me, and took me in. Ivan was too busy trying to hold off First Cav to look for a downed pilot, and they never looked around, far as I know. After the Cav arrived, I was on the shelf until last month. Then requalifying, and, well, here I am.”

“Glad to have you here, Captain. And if you have any pointers on how to deal with SA-11, we'd like to know. Because there are two people in this room-” Guru pointed to himself and Goalie- “Who nearly ran afoul of an SA-11 trap this morning, and any information you have would be greatly appreciated.”

Hasegawa nodded. “Yes, sir. I'll pass on what I know.”

“Good,” Guru nodded. “You have a call sign?”

“Samurai, and that comes from my being pretty good at Kendo.” He saw puzzled looks, and explained. “Japanese fencing.”

Goalie nodded herself. “And your buddies at Flight or the RTU found out, and so...”

“That's about it.” Hasegawa noticed Goalie's silver bar and navigator wings. The fact that she was here with the CO meant that she was his GIB. Not that it was his business...

Mark Ellis spoke up next. “Any of your relatives in the plastic model business?” Hasegawa Models were known the world over, and he had built some-and so had the CO, for one of their 1/72 scale F-105s sat on Guru's desk.

“Maybe a distant cousin I don't know,” the captain shrugged. “Been asked that more than once.”

Guru smiled. “In that case....” He held out his hand. “Welcome to the Chiefs.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hasegawa grinned.

“You're welcome, Captain,” Guru said. He turned to a big blond fellow who looked to be as tall as he was and had silver bars on his shoulders and navigator wings on his left breast. “And you are?”

“First Lieutenant Dave Lundquist, sir,” the man replied. He handed Guru his own orders and jacket.

Guru opened the orders, and then the jacket. He then looked up. “Academy?”

“Yes, sir,” Lundquist nodded. “Technically, I'm class of '87.”

Goalie was surprised, though not completely. Both Annapolis and West Point had graduated the class of '42 a couple of weeks after December 7, 1941, while making the rest go onto an accelerated three-year program. Though she had helped evacuate the Academy in her C-130 days a few days into the war, what happened after getting them all to Beale AFB in California wasn't on her mind-flying into Denver with food, ammo, medicine, and then flying people out was. “That's a first for us, though. Wartime Academy grad.”

“It is,” Guru nodded. “Any problems working with ROTC or OTS alumni? For your information, I'm the latter.” All four newbies looked at him. “I was a First Lieutenant and a veteran of six months in this very squadron when the balloon went up. There were twenty-four birds and thirty-six crews in this squadron on Invasion Day. Now, there's maybe eight or ten original birds and ten individual aircrew who are Day One vets, plus another vet who was at another base. This squadron's been at it since Day One, so remember that.”

“Yes, Major,” the new guy replied. “And no problem with ROTC or OTS people. One of my instructors
at Mather was ROTC and another up at Kingsley Field.” Mather AFB near Sacramento was the AF's Navigator Training School, which handled training for navigators west of the Rockies these days. Guru and the others had heard that the Navy handled the training for AF navs on the East Coast-something that, prewar, would've been unheard of.

Guru looked at him. Good for you, he thought. “All right, then.” He scanned Lundquist's file. “Physics major and biology minor? You have aspirations, I take it. Do those include NASA?”

“Yes, sir. I know I can't be a shuttle pilot because I'm not a pilot. But there's always Mission Specialist.”

Goalie looked at him, then Guru. “He'll fit in with Cosmo.”

“He will. We've got a former grad student in Astronomy who's now flying F-4s. You and her might just have a few things to talk about.”

Ludquist's face let out a grin. “We just might, Major.”

“Sounds good.” Guru put out his hand. “Welcome to the Chiefs.”

“Thanks, Major,” the big Swede said as he and the CO shook hands.

“Glad to have you,” Guru said. He turned to the next guy, a fellow who looked like he'd once played football, and not in the backfield. Like Lundquist, he wore First Lieutenant's insignia and nav wings. “And you?”

“Mark Walker, Major,” he replied. “Out of Richfield, Utah and BYU.” He, too, handed the CO his orders and jacket.

“Says here you dropped out of your Junior year at BYU to join up,” Guru said. “OTS, then nav, and F-4s.” Then something caught his eye. “Business major?”

Walker nodded. “That's right, sir.”

“Says here you've got 20/10 vision in one eye and 20/30 the other. That explains you as a nav, but you're also a rated private pilot?”

“Learned to fly from Dad, and I've got 300 hours in his Cessna 172 and a Beechcraft Baron. As long as I wear a contact in the bad eye? I'm fine.”

Hearing that, Ellis asked, “Did you try and get a waiver into Flight Training?”

“Yes, sir, I did,” said Walker. “Must've had the wrong review board, because my request was denied. But I ran into a couple of guys at Kingsley Field who had the same vision I did, and they were in the front seat.”

“Different review board,” the XO commented.

“Guess so,” the CO added. “Okay, any problems with female aircrew? Some folks from your neck of the woods do have an issue with that.”

Walker shook his head. “No, sir, and I'm not going to argue with somebody's record just because they're female.” He looked at Goalie, and saw her fruit salad. Especially the DFC and Silver Star ribbons. “I gather there's a few in this squadron?”

“There are,” Guru said. “And two pilot and two GIB aces, as a matter of fact. Along with two F-4s that are, well, 'unmanned'.”

“All-female crews,” Goalie added.

“And several other aircrew,” said the CO. “Any problems?”

Walker shook his head again. “No, sir.”

“All right,” Guru said, extending his hand. “Welcome to the Chiefs.”

“Thanks, sir.”

“Glad to have you with us,” Guru said. He nodded at the fourth arrival, who wore pilot's wings and the bar of a First Lieutenant, and looked like he'd been a wrestler in school. “And you?”

“Pat Erickson, sir,” he said, handing his orders and jacket over. “University of Wyoming via a small town near Rochester, Minnesota.”

Guru nodded and went over the man's jacket. “Says here you were working on a Physics major and a minor in P.E.” He looked up. “Going to be a teacher?”

“Yes, Major,” Erickson nodded back. “But the Russians had other plans, and so, here I am.”

“So you are,” the CO said. “Well, when this is over and you've fulfilled your commitment to the Air Force, you can go back to school, then tell your students what you did in World War Three.”

“If he makes it to the end,” Goalie observed. She was matter-of-fact about it, as the CO and XO knew.

The Exec nodded. “That little factor is always there,” he said.

Guru agreed. “It is. Now how'd you wind up in Wyoming?”

Erickson smiled. “Baseball scholarship. Played Third base and Shortstop in high school, and the same in College. If not for this war, I'd be in my Senior year right now.”

“Looks like we've got a ringer when we play the Jarheads in a pickup baseball game,” Goalie grinned. She had played softball at the Air Force Academy, how many years or lifetimes back? Several, she knew.

“That we do,” Guru noted. “All right....top fifteen percent in your OTS class. Top twenty-five percent in UPT.” His head perked up. “Says here you asked for F-16s?”

The ex-baseball player nodded. “Everybody wants either F-15s or -16s, seems like. Asked for F-16s first, then -15s. They were also asking for people to sign up for the F-20, so that was my third choice. Opened my orders, and they said 'Kingsley Field, Oregon.'”

Guru looked at him sympathetically. Not everybody got what they wanted, in peacetime, and especially so in wartime. “The Viper's loss is Double-Ugly's gain. You might want to keep that in mind.” Then something occurred to him. “How long ago were they recruiting people for the F-20?”

“About a month ago,” Erickson replied. “You sound like that's important, sir.”

“Just curious. We had some F-20s here a week ago, and they were demonstrating the bird, and trying to poach Phantom Phanatics into that little toy.”

“Ah, I see. Well, sir, that's that.”

“It is,” the CO nodded, holding his hand out. “Welcome to the Chiefs.”

“Thanks, Major,” replied Erickson as he shook Guru's hand.

“You're welcome, Lieutenant. Now, for your information, we're in the air-to-mud league for the most part. Eighty percent of our tasking is hitting targets on the ground. That means BAI, Counter-air, and even CAS. Now that doesn't mean that we don't accept the occasional MiG or helo we run across, or if we're jumped by the bad guys. We do have our share of aces, but nobody has a score in the double-digits, if you know what I mean.” Heads nodded at that, then the CO went on. “Also, eighty percent of our losses are people who don't make it to ten missions. Get past that, and your chances of survival go up considerably.”

“Forget about rotating out,” Ellis added. “We're in this for the long haul. Just like the Luftwaffe, the Japanese, or the Russians in WW II. “The one thing that keeps you from burning out are stand-down days like we have coming up tomorrow, and your time on R&R. You get two two-week periods during the year.”

Goalie then said, “The only way out is to be either KIA/MIA/POW, you do get burned out and the flight surgeon grounds you for a while, or somebody at Training Command asks for you.”

“That's how it is,” Guru said. “Now, there is a significant Spetsnatz threat to this base. And the Marines we're OPCON to take the 'Everyone a rifleman' saying very seriously. After the XO shows you to your billets, he will take you to Captain Ryan Blanchard and her Combat Security Police. You will draw a long gun and a pistol from them, and she and her people will instruct you in the care, feeding, and use of such firearms. Is that clear?”

“YES, SIR!” All four shouted.

“Good. All right, two more things. First, there's a snobby Major who's been a PITA to everyone in this squadron in particular and MAG-11 as a whole. He's a Frank Burns wannabe, a would-be martinet, and personifies the worst of Academy grads-he hates anyone not wearing an Academy class ring, has no use for ROTC or OTS alumni, and thinks enlisted and NCOs are serfs and he's the lord. Just give him the polite minimum and you'll be fine.”

“How bad is he, Major?” Hasegawa asked.

“Bad enough,” Guru replied. “Now, tonight you're all newbies. Tomorrow? Fellow animals in the zoo. Watch out for Captain Kara Thrace. She dominates the pool table and poker games, and do not play pool with her unless it's a friendly, and don't play poker unless you've got money in your wallet.”

All four looked at each other. “They did warn us about her, Major, when people found out we were coming to the 335th,” Lundquist said. “She's that bad?”

“She is,” Goalie said. “Don't get into debt with her. For she has an 'alternate payment plan.'”

“They did warn us about that as well.” Nothing more needed to be said, for word traveled fast about Kara's antics. All they needed to know they could pick up from anyone who'd been on the Trans-Pacific ferry run.

“Good. See that you remember all of that. Any other questions?” Guru asked the four. Heads shook no.

“No, sir,” Hasegawa said.

“Good. Welcome to the 335,” Guru said, shaking their hands. “Mark?”

“You guys come with me,” the XO said. “Get you billeted, then over to the CSPs.”

After Ellis had left with the four, Goalie looked at the CO. “Memories?”

Guru thought for a moment. “Yeah. Almost three years or three lifetimes, it seems. Reported in with Mark, Don, and Tim Cain. He had two other GIBs with him.” Memories of he and his friends' first day came back, realizing that they were now on the bottom of the totem pole in the squadron, and yet, they were going to do what they joined the Air Force to do: fly fighters.

“And who's left?”

“Mark, Don, and myself. The GIBs? All KIA or MIA,” Guru said. “You?”

“When I got to Little Rock and my old C-130 outfit?” Goalie asked. “It was 'Too bad you're a female, because with your Academy and UNT record, you'd be a fighter WSO or a SAC radar navigator. So make the best of it.”

“And you did, until they changed the law.”

“I did. Still got some good memories from those days, and some bad ones. Denver, especially.”

“I know: you've told some of those stories. And seeing a 747 take fire and crash after takeoff with five hundred people stuffed into it had to be no fun. We've flown over that wreck when we took our shots at the siege, remember?”

“Yeah, and it doesn't make that memory any better. Hardly anyone got out, and hope to God we put the hurt on the guys who did it. If not us, then they got caught in the retreat south or in the Pueblo Pocket and they paid for it.”

Guru nodded, then gave her a hug. “You've got your memories, and I've got mine. Some good, others, mighty bad.”

“We all do,” she said. “And what do we do about it?”

He had a ready-made answer. “The best we can,” Guru said. She was right, though: Some private time together was well overdue. “You mentioned some bedroom gymnastics? With the stand-down tomorrow? We can sleep in.”

Goalie let out a grin from ear-to-ear. “Sounds good to me.”

Then a knock on the door interrupted. “Yeah?” Guru said. “Show yourself and come on in!”

Kara came in, and saw the both of them still embracing. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Just a mutual hug when we both needed one,” Goalie said.

“She's right,” Guru replied. “What's up?”

“We've got a mission,” Kara said. “Us and the Brits. It's a six-ship for strike, in case you're wondering.”

“Dave and Flossy, then,” Guru said, seeing Kara nod. “And the Brits?”

“Dave Gledhill's element.”

“Guess we just got the kickoff for the second half,” Goalie said.

“We did,” Guru agreed. “Halftime's over, and time to get back in the game.” He looked at Goalie, then Kara. “Get everybody to the briefing room.”

“How soon?”

“In ten,” Guru said, putting his game face on.

Goalie and Kara looked at each other and nodded. “Got it,” Kara said.

“No rest for the weary or the wicked,” Goalie said as she went to Kara.

“We'll rest after the war, or when we're dead.” Guru replied.

Both knew the CO was right. “We're gone,” Kara said. And both headed out the door.

Goalie's right, Guru thought to himself. We do need some time together. He took a deep breath, then went out himself, and as he did, his Staff Sergeant secretary said, “Good luck, Boss,”

“Thanks, Trish,” the CO replied. Then he went to the Ops Office and found the Ops Officer waiting. “Don,” Guru said. “Kara says I've got a mission?”

“You do,” Van Loan replied, handing him the folder.

Guru opened the folder and scanned the mission summary. He looked at his Ops Officer. “We hit something like this for an opportunity target a couple of hours ago.”

“I heard,” Ops said. “This one's Soviet, and it's the guys who got chewed up a couple of weeks ago-back when General Olds came, and General Yeager's pups helped out.”

“Regimental laager, and these guys are reequipping,” Guru noticed. “Tell me someone in my flight's got Mavericks.”

“Dave and Flossy do,” Van Loan said. “You get the Rockeyes or dumb bombs.”

“Thanks, Don,” the CO said. “You be careful out there. Keep a lookout for SA-11s.”

“After what you guys ran into?” Van Loan replied, “Will do, and be careful your own self.”

Guru shook his hand. “Always.” Then he headed to the Briefing Room his flight used, and went in. He found the rest of his flight there, and Buddy, the mascot, already curled up and asleep. “Okay, folks. Hope you enjoyed halftime, because the third quarter's ready to kick off.”

“Where are we headed?” Sweaty asked.

“Morgan, west of Lake Whitney,” the CO replied. “There's a regimental-sized laager north of the town, and we get to put the hammer down on 'em.”

“Aren't these the same guys who gave us the first ZSU-30 scare?” Hoser asked.

“They are, and that's why Dave and Flossy are coming with us,” said Guru. He turned to their IDF “Observer”. “You two have six Mavericks each. Kill any air-defense assets you see, and opportunity targets if you run out.” The CO passed around some RF-4C and SR-71 imagery of the target area.

Dave Golen smiled. “It'll be a pleasure.” Though if MiGs came, that meant only two Sparrows and a full cannon load.

“We'll take them out,” Flossy added.

“Good. Kara?” Guru turned to his wingmate. “You and I have Rockeyes.”

Kara nodded. “Gotcha, Boss.” She preferred the CBUs for dealing with armor.

“And us?” Sweaty asked, nodding in Hoser's direction.

“Mark-82s with half having the Daisy Cutter fuze extensions,” Guru said.

Preacher looked at one of the pictures. “This a tank or motor-rifle regiment?”

“Motor-rifle, looks like,” Guru replied. The intel sheet didn't say. “As for defenses? Expect regimental level, and that means ZSU-23-4 at least, if not ZSU-30, plus SA-9 or -13.”

“What about heavier stuff?” KT asked.

“Good question. The division these guys belong to had SA-11, but they got chewed up along with the rest of the division, Intel says. Expect a mix: SA-6 or -8, and any remaining SA-11s along with 'em.”

Flossy then asked, “We getting Weasels?”

“Negative,” said Guru. “So we make a few fake “Magnum” calls. In fact, why don't you and Dave do that when you take your Maverick shots?”

“And watch as their radars all shut down to avoid HARMs, and they eat Mavericks instead,” Dave Golen grinned. “I like it.”

“Boss, anyone tell you that you can be a sneaky bastard?” Kara said.

“More than once,” Guru nodded. “One other thing before moving on: we'll be in range of the Hillsboro SA-2, so watch for flying telephone poles.”

“Too far away, and we'll be too low,” Preacher said.

“You never know,” Guru reminded him-and the others. Now, the MiG threat is unchanged since this morning, and the closest MiGs are at James Connally AFB and Waco Regional, and those are Floggers and Fishbeds.”

Dave Gledhill looked at his map. “Closest Fulcrums?”

“Gray AAF at Fort Hood and Bergstrom AFB, which is where the Flankers are,” Guru replied.

Heads nodded at that. Nothing new here. “Okay, Boss, usual way in?” Hoser asked.

“Negative,” Guru said, letting out an evil-looking grin. “We're going in the back way.”

“Back way?” Sweaty asked.

Guru repeated his grin. “We tank up as usual near Mineral Wells at Tanker Track ARCO. Then we get south to the town of Ranger on I-20. Pick up the Leon River, and follow that to Proctor Lake-that's also State Route 16, and the seam between the East Germans to the east, and the Soviet 32nd Army to the west. When we get close to the Proctor Lake Dam, turn to a heading of 110, and head for the town of Fairy-which we've used before. Hit Fairy, then it's Zero-five-zero to Morgan. Our IP is State Route 6 and the Meridian State Park. Pop up, ID your targets-and it's dealer's choice again-then strike. Once clear, get your asses north to the Brazos, and we'll get into the Nicaraguan sector again. Follow the Brazos until we get to the I-20.”

“The reverse of some of what we've been doing,” Kara smiled. “I like it, Boss.”

“So do I,” Dave Golen added.

“Usual air-to-air?” Goalie asked. She, too, wanted the chance at another scalp on her belt.

“Four Sidewinders, two Sparrow-Fs, except for Dave and Flossy-all they get are two Sparrow-Fs, ECM pods and gun. For the rest of us? Full gun, usual ECM pods,and two wing tanks.” Guru nodded at Dave Gledhill. “The Other Dave?”

Hearing that, Gledhill laughed. “Four Sidewinder-Ls, four Sky Flash, SUU-23 pod, and two wing tanks, as usual.”

Guru nodded. Just the usual. “Sounds good, Dave. Any other questions?”

“Buddy's asleep,” KT said, gesturing at the dog, curled up and getting some sun shining through a window.

“Let him sleep,” Sweaty nodded. “Uh, Boss.”

“I would've said the same thing,” Guru laughed as an Ops NCO came to collect the briefing materials. “That's it. Gear up and get ready to fly. Meet at 512.”

The crews headed to their respective locker rooms to gear up. When Guru came out of the Men's, wearing G-suit, survival vest, helmet in hand, and packing his sidearm, he found Goalie waiting, as usual, and similarly attired. “Ready?”

“Two more, then we can knock off for a day,” she grinned. “Let's get it done.”

“Then let's go.” They left the squadron office, then headed out to the dispersal area. When they got to 512's revetment, the rest of the crews were waiting. “Gather 'round, people.”

“Usual on the radio?” Kara asked. That meant call signs between them, and mission code to AWACS and other parties.

“That it is,” Guru nodded. “Bailout areas are still unchanged: that means anywhere rural and away from roads. Lake Whitney-if you're hit at the target-will do in a pinch.”

Flossy asked, “And those basketball-sized tracers?”

“If we encounter them at the target? You and Dave kill them,” Guru said firmly. “If we get some before? Evade, and mark the location.”

“Gotcha, Boss,” said Kara.

“All right, people! Don't get complacent,” Guru reminded them. “That gets people killed or worse,” he said.

“Got you, Major,” Sweaty replied, and when people used his rank, that signaled to Guru that they were taking him very seriously indeed.

“Good. We're still Rambler Flight. Now, I know you're looking forward to the stand-down, but we've still got the afternoon to get through,” said the CO. “Anything else?” Heads shook no. “All right!” Guru clapped his hands for emphasis. “Let's fly. Time to hit it. Meet at ten grand overhead.”

The crews headed to their aircraft, and as Guru and Goalie went into the revetment, the Crew Chief, Sergeant Crowley, was waiting. He snapped a perfect salute as usual, and both Guru and Goalie returned it. “Major, Lieutenant? Five-twelve's ready to rock and kick some more Commie ass.”

“Thanks, Sarge,” Guru replied. He and Goalie did the usual preflight walk-around, then climbed the crew ladder and mounted their aircraft. After getting strapped into their seats, putting on and then plugging in their helmets, they went through the preflight checklist.

As they were doing so, Goalie said, “Any idea when they want us at Nellis? And ejection seats?”

“No idea, but it'll be soon,” Guru replied. “Armed top and bottom. Check yours. Arnie?”

“A night on the strip after we brief the brass,” Goalie thought out loud. “Mine's armed, and Arnie's up and going.” That was the ARN-101 DMAS system and the backup INS.

“They'll be packed,” Guru reminded her. “That's the biggest R&R destination west of the Rockies.”

“There'll be room for two more,” Goalie said. “Preflight checklist complete and ready for engine start.”

“Roger that,” said Guru. He gave a thumbs-up to his Crew Chief, and Crowley gave the “Start Engines” signal. First one, then two, J-79 engines were up and running. “Wouldn't mind a night like that myself.” Once the warmup was complete, Guru called the Tower. “Tower, Rambler Lead with eight, requesting taxi and takeoff instructions.”

A controller got back to him right away-and this one was female. “Rambler Lead, Tower. Clear to taxi to Runway Three-Five-Lima. Hold prior to the active, and you are number two in line.”

“Roger, Tower. Rambler Lead is rolling.” Guru gave another thumbs-up to Sergeant Crowley, who waved to the ground crew. They removed the crew ladder and then pulled the chocks away from the wheels. Guru then released the brakes, and following Crowley's “Taxi” signal, taxied out of the revetment. Once clear, Crowley snapped another perfect salute, and again, both Guru and Goalie returned it.

Guru taxied towards the runway, and as he did, the rest of the flight fell in behind him. When 512 got to the holding area, there was a four-ship of Marine F/A-18s ahead of him. Both had to wait while a C-130 came in to land, and once it taxied clear, the Marines taxied onto the runway. After they launched, it was Rambler's turn to enter the holding area. There, as usual, the armorers removed the weapon safeties. Then Guru called the Tower. “Tower, Rambler Lead requesting taxi for takeoff.”

The same controller replied. “Rambler Lead, Tower. Clear to taxi for takeoff. Winds are Two-five-five for eight.”

“Roger, Tower.” Guru replied, then he taxied 512 onto the runway. Kara followed in 520, and tucked right with him in the Five O'clock position. One final check, then he glanced over, where Kara and Brainiac were going through with their final checks. Then it was time. “Tower, Rambler Lead requesting clear for takeoff.”

As usual, the tower didn't reply by radio, but flashed a green light. Clear for takeoff.

“Ready?” Guru asked Goalie.

“Ready as I'll ever be,” Goalie replied. “Let's get it done.”

“Canopy coming down,” Guru said, closing and locking his canopy.

Goalie did the same, and both looked over at 520, whose crew had also closed their canopies, and gave thumbs-ups. The crew in 512 returned them, and it was time.

“Let's go,” Guru said. He firewalled the throttles, released the brakes, and 512 rumbled down the runway and into the air, with 520 right with them. Thirty seconds later, it was Sweaty and Hoser's turn, followed by Dave Golen and Flossy, with the RAF element bringing up the rear. The flight met up at FL 100, then they headed south for their tanker rendezvous.
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Treat everyone you meet with kindness and respect, but always have a plan to kill them.

Old USMC Adage
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