“Roger, Scratch One. Land your victor by vectored thrust on designated flight line and coordinates.”
The plane dipped out of the sky, plummeting. Six hundred knots dropped to zero in 15.4 seconds. The engines groaned—not a promising sound—as the plane hovered as if levitating, then began to lower elegantly to the aluminum-treated asphalt.
When Colonel Jack Wentz landed the YF-61 on Runway 4 of Andrew’s Tango-Delta site, he fully expected to die. It was a mind-set, it was necessary. The VDU and temp gauges read normal—nevertheless, he expected to die. In fact, of the thousands of times he’d landed planes during his career, he expected to die every time.
That way, he reasoned, if he did die, he wouldn’t be surprised.
The wheel springs grated when he set down, then Wentz commenced with the proper system shut-downs. The Lockheed YF-61, though highly experimental (its turbines ran on hydrogen rather than conventional JP-6) looked just like an F-5E. Hence, there was no need to fly it at a black site.
Colonel Wentz was sick to death of black test sites.
The turbines wound down; Wentz popped the plex canopy and waited for Tech Sergeant Cole to wheel up the ladder.
How do you like that? Wentz said to himself. I didn’t die today.
And he only had three more days to go.
“How’s she handle, sir?” Cole asked when he hopped off the ladder.
Wentz passed him his CVC helmet and mask. “Like a barge. D-O-D wants to buy two hundred and fifty of these boat anchors at a hundred and fifty million a pop? Shit. For a while I thought I was driving a 5-ton Army truck over cinder blocks.”
Cole edged close, whispering. “Come on, sir. What did she clock out at?”
“That’s classified, Cole. You know better than to ask something like that.” Wentz zipped down his collar. “But let me ask you something. In baseball, you get three strikes…and how many balls?”
Cole looked briefly puzzled. “Four, but—” Then his eyes shot wide. “You hit mach f—”
“Shut up, Cole. I thought we were talking about baseball.” Wentz winked at his line attendant. “Now put my shit away and get me some coffee.”
A squadron of F-16s roared overhead, drowning out Cole’s laughter. Up in the flight tower, the duty controller flipped Wentz a thumbs up. Wentz waved back to the guy, knowing he’d never see him again.
“Look, Colonel,” Cole said. “I know you’re getting out on Monday. I just wanted to say it’s been an honor to be your LA for these past couple of weeks.”
“Don’t get misty on me, Cole, I forgot my hanky.” Wentz shook the man’s hand. “And call me Jack. You’re the best LA I’ve had in twenty-five years, so thanks. I’m throwing a retirement bash at my wife’s place Monday night. If you don’t show up, I’ll have you transferred to chow-hall duty in Turkey as my last official act as an Air Force officer.”
“I’ll be there. Oh, and Top wants to see you in A Wing. ASAP.”
Wentz snapped his gaze. “Gimme a break. I just unassed that flying coffin after five straight hours on stick. What’s Top want?
Cole smiled knowingly. “Wouldn’t know.”
Wentz cast a suspicious eye. “It ain’t cool to lie to full colonels, kid. Majors, warrant officers, first lueys—that’s fine. But not full colonels. So what’s going on?”
“Wouldn’t know, Jack. Why don’t you go find out?”
“Yeah.” Wentz walked off the line toward the Dress Unit, sputtering under his breath.
««—»»
Now in fatigues, Colonel Wentz approached the door which read A-WING F.O.D. 1ST SGT. CAUDILL. But everyone here called him “Top,” as in Top Sergeant. Big, burly, and with a low southern drawl, Top was the highest-ranking enlisted man on the base. During Desert Storm, Top had hustled his 250-pound carcass around like a high-school kid, and ran an attack wing that launched over a hundred sorties a day without losing a bird. That’s where he and Wentz had met.
“How’s things in the land of coffee and donuts?” Wentz asked.
“Not bad,” Top replied from behind an immaculate desk. “At least I can eat before I come to work and not worry about blowing chunks when I pull a 6-G.”
“Top, there’s only one thing you pull around here, and that’s my chain. The kid on the line says you need to see me ASAP, so I’m wondering what the hell can Top possibly want to see me about when he knows I’m out of here on Monday?”
Top shrugged, took a sugary french cruller out of a Mr. Donut box. “I just wanted to know how the YF-61 flew.”
“It’s spam in a can. If the Air Force wants to put kids in those things, they better clock ’em five hundred hours of training time first. Otherwise, there’s gonna be a whole lot of tax dollars sitting in the desert along with a whole bunch of kids.”
“I watched you land her. Looked smooth to me,” Top remarked.
“That’s only because I’m the best pilot in the goddamn Air Force—”
“The most modest too—”
“And what’s this all about anyway? You didn’t call me in here to ask me about that hunk of junk.”
Top’s smile drew his jowls up. He slipped a piece of paper off his desk. “Got some orders for ya, Jack.”
Wentz was instantly outraged. This was like a slap in the face. “I’m short and the CO is cutting me orders? Hey, he can send me to Alaska, but three days from now I’ll be signing my retirement papers and turning in this monkey suit for good! I got two hundred grand a year waiting for me flying 777s for United!”
Top closed his eyes, rubbed his temples. “I can’t believe a hardcore Air Force driver like you wants to run off to fly those civvie air yachts. Look at all the cool stuff you get to fly for Uncle Sam.”
“Shit on Uncle Sam. That old cracker’s had me bent over his desk for twenty-five years, and he’s never even kissed me. And you want to talk about the ‘cool stuff’ I get to fly? Cool, yeah.” Wentz groaned. “Stuff that would make the Wright Brothers puke. I’m telling you, Top, I’m out of here in three days, and I don’t care where those orders send me. If God Himself cut those orders, I’ll kick His ass up and down Heaven Street. I’ll slam St. Peter’s Gate on His head and bust Him one in the nuts.”
Top winced. “Relax, Jack. They’re promotion orders.”
The office fell silent along with Wentz’s protests. His face felt a yard long staring at Top.
“Guess what?” the First Sergeant continued. “You just made the big one star. Does that mean you’re gonna start bossing me around now? I’m gonna have to start calling you sir?”
Wentz stood speechless.
Top got up from behind the desk and opened a small felt box containing two silver collar stars.
The stars glinted like jewels.
“Don’t just stand there looking like you locked your keys in your car. Try ’em on…”
Wentz gazed longingly at the pair of stars, still unable to give voice.
“Here, allow me,” Top said. He carefully pinned the stars onto Wentz’s fatigue collar, then snapped to attention and saluted.
“Congratulations…General Wentz.”
Wentz, still in a fog, turned to a mirror on the wall. General, the word slipped through his mind. The stars glittered back at him in the reflection.
“Hard-fuckin’-core, man,” Top approved. “You’re a brigadier general now, Jack. That’s serious rank. And you know something else? You’re a first.”
“I’m a…what?” Jack asked, distracted.