Astounded by the salaries the NFL was offering its latest bunch of recruits, Lou disgustedly threw down the newspaper and dug into his jacket pocket for the Snickers that he had hidden there. Because of his diet, he knew he shouldn’t have even taken it along. But he had so few pleasures left in life, and one little candy bar certainly wasn’t going to hurt him any.
He carefully unwrapped it and took a second to savor its chocolaty aroma before taking a bite full. The bar was fresh and tasted of roasted peanuts, creamy nougat, and rich milk chocolate. Only after he had completely devoured it did the first pangs of guilt possess him.
Four months ago, he had made a New Year’s resolution that he would go on a strict diet and lose at least twenty pounds. At six-four, he was a naturally big man who had developed a lot of muscle as a young football player. His duties in the Air Force were mostly sedentary, and slowly but surely his muscles were turning to flab. To counter this deterioration, he decided on a diet and a strict exercise program.
For the first two months he carefully monitored his diet, cut out all sweets, and exercised regularly. By the end of February he had lost seven pounds. Then, on March first, he was transferred from the States to the UK. The hectic move played havoc with his workout schedule, and the rich English food did the same to his diet. By the end of March, he had gained the seven pounds back and then some, his resolution all but forgotten.
With the taste of the Snickers bar still fresh on his lips, Lou wondered how he’d ever find the willpower to resist such treats. He had to do something drastic, or soon he wouldn’t even be able to fit into his uniforms.
His excess weight was even beginning to get in the way of his present duty. As boom operator he was required to lie on his stomach and crawl into the cramped passageway at the tail end of the airplane. It was here that he directed the boom down to the refueling aircraft.
If he kept gaining weight, he wouldn’t be able to fit into this narrow section of the KC-135, and his days of being a boom operator would be over. He’d then most likely be grounded and forced to wait out his retirement at a desk. Such a future didn’t appeal to Lou, who wondered if the base hospital could help him find a compatible diet program and force him to stick to it. Promising himself that he would at the very least give this option a try, he sat forward. His intercom headset suddenly activated.
“Master Sergeant Moretti,” greeted the distinctive bass voice of the pilot.
“We’ve got our thirsty customer on radar, twenty miles ahead of us. Intercept will be in five minutes. Do you think that you can handle them?”
“We aim to please,” returned the boom operator, who then pivoted, and after sucking in his bulging waist, began his way further into the KC-135’s tail.
To accomplish the refueling process, it was necessary for Captain Lawrence Stockton to bring his B-52 down to 30,500 feet. This was some 2,000 feet below the tanker, that was in the process of initiating a sharp banked turn, to put itself several miles ahead of Red Dog two-niner. It was as the bomber began slowly closing this distance that the cockpit intercom rang.
“Captain Stockton, this is Major Tabor. I’m showing a yellow light on the fusing circuit of bomb number four.
I’m almost certain that it’s nothing but that of’ gremlin at work again, but I’d like permission to go down into the bomb rack and check for certain.”
“I copy that, Major,” replied the pilot.
“We’re just about to begin refueling up here. Couldn’t that eyeball check wait until we’ve finished this process and turn for home.”
“I’d rather get on it right away, Captain. If it’s something more serious than a bad circuit, I might have to open it up, and that could be a lengthy process.”
Lawrence Stockton deliberated a second before responding.
“I understand, Major. Go ahead and check it out. I’ll get Major Avila to relieve me and meet you down in the bomb rack. If it is that gremlin again, maybe this time we can catch him red handed
Stockton unplugged his umbilical, and as he began removing his restraining harness, addressed his copilot.
“I’d better get down to the bomb rack and see what’s upsetting Major Tabor. Ill send up Major Avila to take my place. It’s about time he earned his keep around here.”
“Can I still handle the refueling, Captain?” asked the eager copilot.
Stockton answered the rookie while slipping out of his ejection seat and carefully climbing over the console that held the throttles.
“I don’t see why you can’t. Lieutenant.
Make certain our friendly flying gas station cleans those windows while they’re at it, and checks under the hood as well. And if he asks for your charge card number, remind him to put in on Uncle Sam’s tab.”
With this the veteran pilot playfully winked and turned to make his way out of the cockpit. As expected, he found the relief pilot sound asleep on the narrow bunk that lined the fuselage. He put his hand on Avila’s shoulder and shook him awake.
“Rise and shine, Major.”
Pete Avila groggily stirred.
“Are we home yet, skipper?”
“We won’t be back in Barksdale for another six hours.
And we won’t be getting home at all unless you get your keister up into the flight deck and make certain that our tanks get filled. And by the way, I told the lieutenant that he could handle the controls when we link with the KC-135. He’s a sharp kid, but keep your eyes on him all the same.”
“Will do, skipper,” replied the relief pilot as he stiffly sat up, yawned, and scratched his beard-stub bled chin.
“I’ll be in the bomb rack with Major Tabor if you need me,” added the pilot, who continued on down a narrow passageway lined with snaking cables and electronics gear.
A ladder brought Stockton to the deck below, where the B-52’s primary cargo was stored. Here he found the bombardier seated at a computer console, busily feeding a series of requests into the keyboard.
“Find anything yet, Major?”
The bombardier took a moment to scan the monitor screen.
“It doesn’t look like that short is located on this side. Skipper. Even with an auxiliary circuit, it’s still flashing yellow.”
Crossing the compartment to check this screen himself, Lawrence Stockton reflected.
“If it is an internal short, then I bet it occurred when we initiated that practice run over Spitsbergen.”
“That’s very possible,” returned the bombardier.
“But I’m still going to have to open up number four to check that circuit board firsthand.”
The pilot nodded.
“Then let’s do it, Major. 111 open up the rack while you get the test kit.”
As a duly qualified bombardier in his own right, Lawrence Stockton replaced the Major at the console.
He needed to enter a series of security codes before depressing a large red toggle switch positioned directly above the keyboard. The muted hum of hydraulic machinery filled the air as two steel plates that had formed the floor of the compartment opened with a loud popping hiss. This revealed a large hollow cavity, approximately twenty feet long and six feet wide. Mounted inside this opening was the tubular steel bomb rack.
Four cigar-shaped objects were held inside this structure.
Each of these cylinders, stored in side-by-side pairs, was seven feet in length and looked much like a fat torpedo.
Lawrence Stockton carefully studied each of these objects, which he knew to be their four 1.5-megaton hydrogen bombs.
The underside of the cavity was currently sealed, and led directly to the outer skin of the bomber. This was the bomb bay door, and would be opened only to service the weapons or to drop them.