Chapter 4
Zero-dark early: two hours before wheels up.
Bruce blew on his coffee and took another small sip, trying to stay awake. Maps covered the walls of the 3rd ACC Fighter Wing briefing room. Lines and circles made the charts look like a jumble of confusion; the air routes, bombing ranges, restricted areas, and flight patterns were all displayed in a fashion coherent only to an experienced pilot.
The eight pilots and backseaters comprising Maddog Flight surrounded a table, marking out their strategy for the day’s bombing run. A bombing run without bombs, that is — the mission was merely to familiarize the crews with the idiosyncrasies of Crow Valley, the bombing range fifteen miles to the west of Clark.
Once an area dotted with rice paddies, Crow Valley was part of the land thrown in when the Philippine government leased Clark and Subic back to the United States. The valley was now a restricted area, for use by Air Force and Navy pilots to practice laying down their weapons.
Before they flew their F-15s “hot”—loaded down with weapons — Maddog Flight would have to undergo Jungle Survival School. The thought was in the back of Bruce’s mind, but he didn’t let it worry him. Getting back from today’s flight was his first priority. That and staying awake.
“Time hack on my count,” Skipper’s voice broke in. “Five, four, three, two, one—hack.”
Bruce zeroed his watch to coincide with the time Skipper had announced. The entire flight was now calibrated to the Flight Commander’s clock.
The hour-long flight brief was over. The crews headed out to take a final leak before suiting up. Charlie loitered in the briefing room, making sure he was the last to empty his bladder.
Light banter filled the personal equipment room — PE room, as the pilots called it — as the men and women struggled into their equipment. Webbed netting made up survival vests, parachute harness, and jungle gear. Lockers and wooden benches packed the PE room. Posters on the wall displayed Chinese and North Korean aircraft.
Bruce finished snapping on his survival vest and slammed his locker shut. Patting his pockets, he pulled out a stick of gum and popped it in his mouth. He stuffed his helmet into his flight bag. “Foggy, you ready?”
“Yo.”
They pushed through the locker room and down the hall to the Squadron Duty Desk. Just outside the door and to the right, a dark blue crew bus waited to take the officers to their jets. Charlie peeled off for the bathroom. “Meet you on the bus.”
Bruce grunted, then turned left into the Squadron Duty Area.
At the end of the hall, Major Brad Dubois sat behind an empty desk. Built like a fireplug but not quite as pretty, the major was completely bald. A long whiteboard, filled with grease-penciled names, times, and dates, took up the wall behind him; the board matched aircraft numbers with pilots’ names, dates, and scheduled times of flights. Major Dubois read a paperback book, something with a scantily dressed female and a man in a spacesuit on the cover. Bruce thought he saw the major moving his lips when he read.
“Good morning, Major.”
Dubois looked up. He blinked, but otherwise remained expressionless.
Uh-oh, thought Bruce, I wonder if Neanderthal man speaks English. “Hello, sir, I’m Lieutenant Steele. I’ve just been assigned here. Uh, I’ve come to sign my aircraft out.”
Dubois reached under the desk and pulled out a battered green notebook. The log was dog-eared and covered with markings. “Here.” He shoved it toward Bruce and turned back to his book.
Popping his gum, Bruce waited for the man to look up, say something, or just show some sign that he was alive. When nothing happened, Bruce shrugged and picked up a pen. As he copied down the information about his aircraft from the whiteboard onto the log, Catman came up and joggled his elbow. Bruce rolled his eyes toward Major Dubois, then returned to signing out his plane.
Catman wisely stayed quiet until his turn; Bruce decided not to wait for his friend and instead headed for the bus. As he walked down the hallway, he glanced at some of the murals that covered the walls. An array of fighter aircraft, starting with the old P-51 Mustang, was depicted in various shooting scenes. Bullets flew from the aircraft, usually impacting some hazily drawn enemy plane. Other scenes in the mural showed jets dropping bombs, bridges exploding, and black smoke billowing up from oil tanks.
The planes evolved into other models — an F-4 Phantom, the F-15E, then at the end of the hall, the F-22 and F-35. The aircraft of PACOM. The F-15 may not be the newest fighter on the block, but it would be the best way for delivering air-to-ground munitions for decades to come.
Bruce noted that there was no room for other planes.
The door opened into the early morning air. It was already muggy outside. Filipino weather never varied more than a few degrees, even from night to day.
On the bus, Catman crowded down the aisle after Bruce. “Sleep well tonight, boys and girls. Your Air Force is here to protect you.”
Bruce threw his flight bag on the floor and flopped into the seat directly behind Charlie. “Man, oh man. What do you think Dubois uses on his head — floor wax?”
“Hey, don’t make fun of older men,” protested Catman. “Foggy will get a complex.” He leaned over and pretended to buff the top of Charlie’s head with his knuckles.
“Knock it off, you clowns.”
Bruce found himself popping his gum. The discovery brought back memories of a few nights back — the young Filipino girl and the rush he had felt when he saw her.
He shook off the feeling. He was probably just getting excited about the flight, the first they’d had since coming in. And the girl was just an icon of his freedom. It could have been any girl, any stranger that looked his way, and he probably would have felt the same elation. It was just his subconscious clearing his mind for him.
He chewed his gum faster. So much for self-psychoanalysis, he thought. Let’s get down to business.
Skipper appeared at the front of the bus; he grasped the metal railing with both hands as the bus started off. “Quick change to the radio frequencies, ladies and gents. Listen up. Button 1 is now the squadron frequency, Button 2 is ground control, 3 tower, 4 is first departure and Button 5 is for the bomb run at Crow. That’s just backwards from what we briefed. Any questions?”
“Any reason why they changed it, Skipper?”
“Not enough work for the Colonels — something’s got to keep them busy.”
Bruce reached into his flight bag and pulled out his iPad. He lightly touched the screen and brought up various maps and a list of the radio frequencies. He quickly tapped in the change.
Catman and Robin chattered away. “Hey, what about that Major Dubois? Anybody know if he can talk?”
“Nope. Probably got a command lobotomy once he made field grade, so the wing has put him out to pasture.”
“All right, you clowns,” cautioned Skipper. “Try to pull one over on Dubois and he’ll ream you. Remember he’s the flight scheduler. How’d you like to be flying Christmas Day?”
“Do they have Christmas over here, Skipper? I’d have thought they’d cancel it because of the heat.”
The bus moved onto the taxiway and slowed. They passed by a row of black C-130 transports. The low-slung lifters were the quintessential workhorse of the 1st Special Operations Squadron.
They pulled up the ramp to a line of F-15s; a flight of F-22s lay beyond them. The bus slowed to a stop.
“Twenty minutes,” reminded Skipper.