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Old 02-21-2019, 08:47 PM
Matt Wiser Matt Wiser is offline
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Blowing off steam in the Club-and the RAF guys have more reason than most to do so...



Officer's Club Tent, Sheppard AFB, Texas, 1725 Hours Central War Time:


Major Matt Wiser had walked over to the Officer's Club, and as he got there, he found Squadron Leader Gledhill at the entrance. It was as if Gledhill had been waiting for him. “Dave,” Guru said.

“Guru,” Gledhill replied. “Just who I was waiting for.”

“Need some help writing those letters?” Guru asked. “I'm still new at it myself.”

“First time, I'm afraid,” Gledhill nodded. “Paul Jackson had that job on Bermuda.”

The CO looked at him. “He was your CO, and I'll bet he never got used to it.”

“No. Three planes lost due to being mortared-”

“Probably due to someone speaking Russian helping out the culprits. You guys may have had a Spetsnatz threat and didn't know it,” Guru said. “Anyway, you were saying?”

“Yes, three lost on the ground, and three more out over the Atlantic,” said Gledhill. “One crew ejected near a convoy, and your Navy helicopter chaps pulled them out, but the others? Nothing. Wingmen came back and they didn't see a thing, and didn't know what happened.”

Guru nodded understanding. He, too, had friends who had gone out, and the wingmen didn't know how it happened, only that the crew in question had something bad happen. “I know the feeling. Let's talk it over a beer. I'm buying.”

“In that case, lead the way.”

Guru and Gledhill went into the tent, and bellied up to the bar. “Smitty, two Sam Adams,” Guru told the barkeep.”

“Comin' right up, Major,” Smity said. He put the two cold beer bottles on the bar. “Heard about what happened today.”

“Word travels fast,” Guru observed. “No surprise there.” He paid Smitty, then picked up his bottle. “Here's to Ian and Michael. May they come back safe.”

“Here, here,” Gledhill said, picking up his own bottle. Clink.

“So....What happened out over the Atlantic?' Guru asked. “Chasing down Backfires and Bears, culling out ASW choppers from a Red convoy, and finding lost sheep straying from the Air Bridge would be my guess.”

“You guess right,” Gledhill said. “Backfires and Badgers from Iceland, Badgers from Cuba, and the odd Forger or helicopter from a convoy. We don't have to worry about Iceland now that's been liberated, your Navy culled out the Badgers from Cuba, and so...”

“So you're here,” Guru finished. “What happened to the two crews who weren't found? Get too close to a Red convoy?”

“One of them, that's very possible. But they were at least a hundred miles from the convoy when the wingman reported them down,” said Gledhill. He should know, for he had been in the element lead. “They were at night, and anything could have happened: vertigo, spatial disorientation, hypoxia, anything's possible.”

“Bermuda,” someone said next to Guru. He turned, and it was Colonel Brady. “You do know where you were, Squadron Leader. Right at the apex of the Triangle.”

Gledhill laughed. “The locals did give us some razzing about that,” he said. “Never did see anything strange.”

“What about the other one?” Guru asked.

“Nobody knows,” said Gledhill as he took another pull on his beer. “Just that they went in from 15,000 feet, no Mayday call or anything, the element leader said. No beepers or chutes, just a splash in the water and some pieces floating...”

“Another mystery of the sky,” Guru noted. “Too many of those.”

“Ever see anything strange, Major?” Brady asked. He was curious, and open-minded about such things.

“If you mean out over there? No, sir,” said Guru. “Took my F-4 training at Homestead AFB-that's south of Miami,” he explained for Gledhill's benefit. “Three years ago or three lifetimes, it seems. Anyway, I did have an instructor there who had two UFO sightings within three weeks.”

“Well, now,” Brady said. “What'd he tell you?”

“First time, he said they were on a ACM flight over the Atlantic, east of Homestead. His student dives on what he thinks is one of the other flight, and it turns out to be an egg-shaped thing about fifty feet long. They overshoot, and both come around for another pass. Silver color, with no wings, props, jet, rotors, and no insignia. They overshot again, and this time, the damn thing goes from 2500 feet to 15,000 in the blink of an eye, straight up. Then it shoots off and left four F-4s as if they were chained to a post.”

“Whoa...” Smitty said. He'd been listening in, like a typical barkeep. “What happened next?”

Guru took another pull on his beer. “The radar controllers saw it, so when they got back, here's a friendly Intelligence Officer waiting with a stack of forms. Filled them out, and the intel guy said 'We'll contact you if we need more information.' Never did, and three weeks later, it happens again.”

Both Brady and Gledhill looked at him. “What?”

“That's right, three weeks later, on a night navigation flight. They went up to Kennedy Space Center, then back down well off the coast. They're about parallel to Bimini in the Bahamas, close enough to see the lights from the island, Flight climbs up and turns towards Florida, and the Homestead radar tells them they've got company. Everybody's looking around, and here's a disc-shaped thing about fifty feet in diameter, with four lights-red-blue-green-white, on the rim, another green light on the top, and a red light on the bottom. Instructor calls the break, and they turn into it. Damn thing just stops, and they overshoot. As they did, he and his GIB saw what looked like a lighted cockpit, but it was so bright they couldn't see inside. Flew out maybe two miles, then turned and came back in. GIB has his radar on, and two things happened: first, the radar screen turns to hash.”

“They were being jammed,” Gledhill recognized that at once.

“That,” Guru nodded. “And the damn thing just stands up at a forty-five degree angle, and is off like a shot. One second he's there, next he's a blur, then he's gone.”

Smitty then asked, “What happened when they got back?”

“Same friendly intel guy with the same stack of forms.”

Brady was curious. “Why'd your instructor tell you, Major?”

Guru shrugged. “Guess he felt that if I was going up with him, I had a right to know. Never did see something, but heard some folks did. After what my instructor said, I promised not to laugh at anybody who said they had a similar experience. And this: at the post-graduation reception? We were talking, and the subject came up between us. He said, 'I don't know who's flying them, where they're from, or what they're fully capable of, but there's one thing I would like.' I said, 'What's that, Major?' And he had this evil-looking grin on his face. 'I want to fly one!'”

Hearing that, Smitty laughed. “Having been around pilots, Major? Any of you guys would.”

“No doubt,” Brady said. “Major, change of subject. What the hell happened on your last one?”

“No idea, sir, and I was ready to tear into my intel, but it's a waste of time. He's just passing down what he's been told. But somebody's fucked up somewhere and I want some balls crunched,” Guru said angrily. He finished his beer and waved at Smitty for another.

“Major,” Brady nodded. “You know the intel community's motto: 'We're betting YOUR life.'”

“Ain't that the sorry truth, sir?” Guru asked. “Now I want my squadron's EW systems tweaked. And Dave? Yours might as well get that upgrade. ZSU-30-2 is no fun. Ask the Marines-they had a CO and two others in the same flight go down, no thanks to those puppies.”

“Thanks, Guru,” Gledhill nodded. And he decided then and there to have a talk with those Marines in question.

“And Squadron Leader?” Brady asked. “If you want to have a toast to your lost squadron mates? Be our guest. Just do it before Twelve-Hour kicks in.”

“Thank you, sir,” Gledhill replied. “I do appreciate that.”

Brady and Guru nodded, then Guru looked around. “Sir, on that note, I need to go to my flight's table. Almost time to eat, and we do have two newbies.” He nodded in that direction, and saw Kara, Sweaty, Hoser, Preacher, and Brainiac. Then Goalie came in with Snag, and Mark Ellis followed with Brandon Doucette.

“FNGs,” Brady nodded. “We were all like that, once. Major, one last thing. Word's gone around about your Major Carson and his Article 15.”

Gledhill looked at both Americans. “What's that?” He got a quick explanation from both Colonel Brady and Major Wiser. “Ah. So, now you're waiting for the other shoe to fall.”

“Something like that,” Guru said. “Three questions still outstanding. What's going to happen, when, and when it does, how many people get killed?”

Brady nodded. “All three are equally valid, Major.” He noticed the restraunteurs bringing in the night's dinner. “On that note, Major, time to get something to eat. You two have a good evening.”

“Will do, sir, and same to you,” said Guru. He left the bar, but before he found his table, he ran into Doc Waters, the squadron's flight surgeon. “Doc.”

“Major,” Doc nodded pleasantly. “Word's gone around about Frank.”

“His Article 15 came through,” Guru said. “That travels fast.” Seeing Doc nod, he continued. “I want you to watch him. Especially for anything that smacks of Emotional Instability. Or anything physical. Because if either one comes up...”

“I can ground him,” Doc said. He understood what the CO meant-and likely wanted. Apart from Carson transferring out voluntarily (unlikely, as even he knew), that was the most easiest way to get him out of everyone's hair. Especially if the reason for said grounding meant shipping him off somewhere for some tests......

“Smart man, Doc,” Guru said. He noticed two others in undress blues sitting at the same table as Frank. “Those two are guys from the Air Base Group.” It wasn't a question.

“They are. One's an unrated weenie who washed out of flight training, the other? He's got pilot's wings, but won't fly again. Broke both legs and a hip on bailout a few months before the balloon went up. Docs told him he'd never fly an ejection seat-equipped aircraft again.”

Guru nodded, for that was one guy he could really feel sorry for. Flying fighters one day, then, after the crash and injuries, being told that once you recovered, you'd fly trash-haulers-if anything. “And the other thing is they're all Academy grads,” he guessed.

“You're right about that. The pilot's a classmate of Frank's, the other guy's a year ahead,” said Doc. “And all three blow off steam together.

The CO understood that. “Still, Doc. Keep your eye on Frank.”

“Will do.”


When Guru got to the table his flight used, he found an extra. “Well, I guess you've taken in Snag,” he said.

“A friend of Goalie's is a friend of ours,” Kara said. “Even if she did go to Mile High U,” she added, referring to the derogatory nickname for the Air Force Academy used by those who weren't products of that institution.

“Down, girl,” Guru said. “Can't be that choosy, even if ninety percent of the officers in the Air Force these days are ROTC or OTS alumni.”

“Something that skunk Carson won't admit,” Goalie growled.

“No,” Sweaty said.

Snag nodded, then looked around. “I do recognize him from last time,” she nodded. “And those two. Only guys around here in undress whites. And he looks to be in a foul mood.”

“He's got a reason to be. Slapped an Article 15 on him today,” Guru replied. “And now there's a ton of pressure on him.”

“What for?” Snag asked, and Guru and the others explained. “Well, Lisa,” she said, referring to Goalie by her first name. “We had a few assholes like that in our class.”

Goalie nodded. “That we did, Corrinne,” she said. “There's always those kind of assholes around, no matter where you went to school.”

“Yeah,” Preacher said. “Even in the seminary, there were a couple like that.”

“Boss,” Sweaty said to change the subject. “Any word on those guns?”

“Guns?” Snag asked.

“ZSU-30-2,” Guru said. “And those fuckers are very bad news.”

“That bad?”

“Think a Gepard with missiles,” Kara spat. “Missiles that are optically guided, and our EW gear hasn't been tweaked to pick up their radars.”

“Yet,” Brainiac added.

Snag looked at her new CO. “Any counters I should know?”

“Yeah,” Guru said, pulling on his beer, then he got serious. “If you're packing Mavericks? Take the shots. If not, and you see basketball-sized tracers coming up? Take evasive action. You see them at the target? Abort.”

“All you can do,” Hoser added.

“Pretty much,” Kara said. “Until the tech geeks come by and tweak the EW gear.”

“And when did General Olds say that would be?” Goalie asked.

“Two weeks,” Guru said. “Three, at the most. I've got a query in to Tenth Air Force to see if they can't speed things up.”

“And no reply yet,” nodded Sweaty. It wasn't a question.

“Not yet.”


A minute later, Don Van Loan came in. “Boss, got the newspapers off the C-141. L.A. Times,”

“That's mine,” Guru said, and the Ops Officer tossed the paper to the CO.

“Orange County Register,” Van Loan went on, and Goalie snapped up the paper. “And both Stars and Stripes and USA Today.”

“I'll take USA,” Kara said.

“Stars and Stripes here,” Sweaty added.

“Don, you met Captain Cassidy when she brought that F-4 from the ferry run?” Guru asked.

The Ops Officer nodded and put out his hand. “Sure do, and the pleasure's mine again.”

“Likewise,” Cassidy said.

“She might be your new wingman,” Guru said. “Call sign Snag, by the way.”

“Still not a guy,” Van Loan grinned. “Almost gave that to Flossy, Boss.”

“That we did,” Kara grinned.

“You'll know tomorrow who your new wingman will be,” Guru said. “So will Mark.”

Van Loan nodded. “Fair enough, Boss. Mark's talking with Dave Golen and the other FNG.” He nodded in the direction of the table the XO's flight preferred, where Doucette was talking with the XO's people, and Dave Golen had stopped by. “And chow's here.” The restraunteurs and Marine Mess people were bringing in dinner.

“Folks, got a surprise,” one of the restraunteurs said. “Real meat loaf, with Bison instead of beef, with mashed potatoes and gravy, or grilled chicken with beans and rice.”

After people got what they wanted, it was time for Walter Cronkite on AFN. This evening, there wasn't much to interest anyone. “Slow news day,” Snag observed.

“Not much here, either,” Guru said, reading from the L.A. Times and having some of the meat loaf. “Other than they're putting the squeeze on Proxmire's aides.”

“Good for them,” Goalie said. “Anything in the international section?”

“Says here the UN got a protest about a Space Shuttle flight a few weeks ago.”

“What about it?” Kara asked as she attacked her chicken.

Guru took a bite of meat loaf, then grinned. “They're hollering because the crew limpet-mined a 'weather satellite.' Yeah, right.”

Cosmo overheard that, next table over. “Boss, no way is a weather satellite in Low Earth Orbit. That was a recon sat, plain and simple.”

“No doubt about that,” Goalie said. She took a bite of meat loaf, then scanned her paper. “Orange County Register has a piece on the protests in West Germany. They're getting bigger.”

Sweaty was looking at Stars and Stripes. “How much bigger?”

“Try this: 200,000 in Hamburg. Same in Munich. 150,000 in Dussseldorf, 100,000 in Frankfurt,” said Goalie. “Stuttgart had 75,000, and Mainz had the same.”

“Anything from West Berlin?” Sin Licon asked, one table over.

Goalie scanned the article. “They had 80,000 at an anti-neutralist rally within sight of the wall, and 40,000 not far off, that was pro-neutralist, and unlike the others, had some property damage before the West Berlin cops broke it up.”

“They still have the Berlin Brigade there, right?” Hoser asked. He had a cousin who, prior to NATO's breakup, had been with the Army's Berlin Brigade.
“They do,” Sin Licon said. “Us, the Brits, and the French. Ivan never did tear up the Four-Power Agreement.”

“Supporting them's got to be a bitch, but yeah, no way would we leave West Berlin hanging,” said Guru.

“I'll bet,” Mark Ellis said from another table. He, too had a paper, USA Today in his case “Boss, anything in your edition about Proxmire?

Guru checked again. “Yeah....says here another aide's talking. This guy went to the FBI and started talking. Care to bet he's got a grant of immunity, thanks to the U.S. Attorney?”

Kara laughed. “That's a bet I wouldn't take. Still, one more nail in Proxmire's political coffin. No way is he getting reelected with at least two aides in a spy scandal.”

“If they don't get him,” Cosmo said. “After the way he treated NASA and DOD? Good riddance.”

People nodded at that. Proxmire's anti-military and anti-NASA views were well known, and to those in the tent, the currently unfolding spy scandal couldn't have happened to a more deserving person. “He's done, politically,” Snag observed. “Even if he does like his Milk subsidies.”

“That he does,” KT said. She had borrowed the sports section of USA Today from Kara. “IOC says they're canceling the '88 Summer Olympics in Seoul. Took them long enough.”

“No surprise,” Brainiac said.

“No,” Guru added. He had some more meat loaf, then skimmed the Op-eds in the LA Times. “Oh, boy. Got two opposing Op-eds here. First one's from both the National Commanders of the American Legion and the VFW. They're saying that once we kick the Russians and and their lackeys out, “'The Cubans and Mexicans must pay the price for facilitating, supporting, and participating in the invasion.'
So we go to Mexico City and Havana before going home.”

Heads nodded at that. All had unfinished business with the Mexicans and Cubans. “No arguing that, Boss,” Brainiac nodded. “What's the other guy say?”

“Hold onto your seats, and I'm enough of a historian to understand a point of view that I hold in total contempt. But this fella's a professor at some college in Santa Monica.”

Goalie let out a scowl. “People's Republic of,” she growled. “Or they were.”

“What's he saying, Boss?” Preacher asked.

“Says that there should be a cease-fire and the UN should host a peace conference, where all parties can discuss 'a peace without aims, peace without victory, a just and honorable peace for all sides. If the conference fails, it fails. We can always resume the battle.'” Guru's voice was dripping with contempt. “Can you believe this shit?”

“Where was this guy when the balloon went up?” Snag wanted to know. “Where was this scumbag when Hips were dropping in on Laughlin? Or Fencers over San Antonio?” She was recalling her own Day One.

“Day one for me,” Brainiac said. “Scrambling from Clark to intercept Badgers out of Cam Ranh Bay.”

“Or seeing a MiG-21 shoot down an airliner,” Guru spat. “This guy's going to get run out of town so fast he'll never know what hit him.”

Kara nodded, then looked at Goalie and Sweaty. She and the other two women had their own Day One experiences. For Kara, getting ready to, then actually evacuating, Reese AFB a few days later was no fun. Goalie had been a C-130 nav at Little Rock, and there had been lots of confusion. Sweaty was waiting to start a tour as a T-38 IP at Columbus AFB in Mississippi, and though Spetsnatz hadn't paid a visit, everyone had been jumpy and on edge. “Well, Boss, he gets what he deserves.”

“I'll drink to that,” Hoser said. He hadn't been in uniform on that day, but wound up spending most of it-and the next, in various lines as he joined the Air Force.

“Hear, hear,” Sweaty added.


After dinner, AFN showed a rerun of a L.A. Raiders-San Diego Chargers game, while Kara went to the Pool Table. Guru then went to the bar, intending to get another beer, and after getting it, found Dave Gledhill. “Dave,” Guru said.

“Guru,” Gledhill replied, shaking the CO's hand. “I see this place still goes, even after someone doesn't come back.”

“You know the saying by now: 'Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow they may not separate us from the rest of the airplane.”

“We've got a similar saying,” Gledhill observed. “Even if in this case, you don't know whether or not to mourn. On Bermuda, we knew those two crews weren't coming back.”

Guru nodded. “Here, though, there's a chance they managed to evade, and if they did, either Jolly Green goes in, or the Resistance finds 'em and they either join up, or they get passed on a rat line until the Jolly Greens can go in.”

“Not much of a chance, though. From what Karen McKay said.”

“I know, but still, there's always a chance,” Guru reminded him. “Get a little drunk, then I'll let you know when it's getting close to Twelve-Hour. We can have your toast to the lost crew then.”

“Gladly.”


Guru got some nachos, then went back to the table. “Here.” He glanced around, and saw Kara holding court at the Pool Table. “She's at her throne.”

“And holding court,” Goalie nodded. “Two Navy guys and somebody whose C-130 is doing a RON tried already.”

Guru knew the rest by heart. “And had their wallets lightened.”

“They did.”

Then Colonel Brady came by. “Major,” he said. “I've waited a long time to do this.”

“Sir?” Guru asked. “Are you...?”

“She's entitled to a crack at me, after all this time,” Brady said. “And if I lose, I shake hands, get another beer, and come back tomorrow night.” He then headed to the pool table.

“Oh, boy..” Guru muttered as Colonel Brady went to the Pool Table. He and Kara showed their money, then went down to business. Even though Brady had more experience, this time, Kara's skills were superior, for she defeated the Colonel. He smiled, nodded, shook hands with Kara. Then he paid her, and went to the bar. There, he got another beer, and came back to the 335th's people. “Sir, don't say we didn't warn you,” Guru said.

“I know, Major,” Brady said. “There's a couple of guys in the Da Nang Officer's Club that she could've run with, back in '67 and early '68.”

“Still in touch with those guys, sir?” Brainiac asked.

“One of 'em went to Hanoi a couple of weeks before I did,” Brady said. “Other one, he was flying for TWA last I heard.”

“Which makes him now on the Air Bridge, or they reactivated him and put him back in a fighter cockpit,” Mark Ellis noted.

“Probably,” Brady agreed. “Either answer can be graded as correct.”

Time passed, and it was soon 1840. “Twenty minutes to Twelve-Hour!” Doc Waters called.

“Major,” Brady said, gathering up the Squadron CO s. Guru followed him and the others to the bar, where the MAG-11 CO rang the bell. “Okay, people! Simmer down and we've got a few things to talk about. First, our RAF friends had their combat debut, and though two of their crews got MiGs, and MiG-29s at that, they did lose a crew today.” Brady paused to let that sink in. “Squadron Leader Gledhill?”

Dave Gledhill stood up and raised a beer bottle. “Here's to Ian and Michael. May they come back safe.”

“Hear, hear,” voices said.

After the Marine CO s had their turn, introducing their own FNGs-and all were guys, in their squadrons, it was Guru's turn. “Okay, our RAF frends kicked some today, and Ivan took a bite out of 'em, too. So....Dave?” He turned to Gledhill. “Your guys might take a few days to a few weeks to come back. Maybe longer.” Guru, too, raised his beer. “Let's hope Jolly Green and the Snake-Eaters are on the ball with this one.”

“Hear, hear!” Kara said, and others echoed her.

“Okay, now, the Chiefs have two FNGs, though one of 'em really isn't. Captain Corinne Cassidy, call sign Snag, stand up.”

Snag did, conspicous in her dress blues. “Major,”

“Snag,” Guru nodded. “Fresh off the TransPac Ferry Run, has more night and instrument time than most of us. And she's got a hell of a Day One story, which involves a bunch of Hip troop-carriers and some Hinds, and her in a T-38.”

She grinned, and said, “You'll get it tomorrow, Major.”

“All right, that we will. Lieutenant Brandon Doucette, stand up!”

“Uh-oh...” Doucette said as he stood up. “Major?”

“Lieutenant,” Guru said. “Now, he's really an FNG, right out of Kingsley Field, and tomorrow night? We'll get you a call sign. And if you don't like it? We'll find one even more embarrassing!”

Doucette gulped. “Gee, thanks, Major.”

“You may be FNGs tonight, but tomorrow? Animals in the zoo.”

“Or inmates in the asylum,” Preacher muttered to Sweaty, who nodded agreement.

“So get used to it, both of you,” Guru said. “Colonel?”

Brady nodded. “Thanks, Major. Now, ten minutes to Twelve-Hour, so drink up!”

People finished their drinks, and ten minutes later, a Navy Flight Surgeon rang the bar bell. “Twelve-Hour now in effect for those flying in the morning!”

Those who hadn't finished turned theirs in, and chose something nonalcoholic. For Guru, it was iced tea. “Well, can't have a beer, but, what'll we drink to?” He asked Goalie.

“How about being still alive?” Goalie replied, and both Preacher and KT, who were still at the table, nodded.

The evening went on, until Doc Waters rang the bar bell at 2100. “Aircrew curfew for those on the morning flight schedule, folks!”

Those affected headed off to their tents, and sleep. For it wouldn't be long until 0430 and aircrew wakeup, and another day of flying.
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