“Colonel, if you want, I’ll start checking on all the fornicators in my squadron and brief you every morning.”
The color in Colonel Shaw’s face started to rise. “Good God, no! With that bunch you sit on, it would take all morning. Besides, I lost my yen for pornography about fifteen years ago. But we are going to have to do something. Tell me about Locke.”
“Pretty much your standard-issue fighter pilot,” Fairly answered. “Twenty-four years old, came into the service right out of college AFROTC. He’s a bachelor and makes an impression with the ladies. Also with some of the young married lovelies, but he cools that. And, he’s the best pilot in my squadron. All he needs is seasoning.”
“Is he such a big skirt-chaser that it’s going to influence his judgment?”
“He’s OK, he only needs maturing. Like I said, he’s had some pretty obvious propositions. He’s always handled that well. My wife claims that I wouldn’t be half as restrained.” Fairly’s answer satisfied the colonel. Too many of the fighter jocks in his wing were getting caught up in the fighter pilot image and losing their way, finding sex, alcohol and general hell-raising more to their liking than the daily business of responsible flying. Locke looked worth saving.
“OK, Mike, I’ll buy what you say. But I’m going to have to take some action. We need to put some salt on his tail and slow him down a bit. We’ve got to get his attention. Got any ideas?”
“Well, sir, I’d recommend some strong words and putting him in the Barrel for a week. That would be the same as confining him to quarters and he’ll have to hang around the squadron without a chance to fly. He’ll get the message.”
Shaw mulled over the suggestion for a few moments. His wing had a commitment to keep two aircrews on alert twenty-four hours a day. Two pilots and their wizzos, or more properly, Weapons Systems Officers (WSOs), had to be ready to man their aircraft within five minutes, ready to start engines. Because of the time requirement, the aircrews had to remain in the squadron or alert shack, and while there were eating and sleeping facilities available, it was very confining. Normally, two pilots and their backseaters would only stay on alert for twenty-four hours before someone else would replace them and go into the “Barrel.” One of the three squadrons would “pull” alert for a week, then pass it on to the next squadron.
The crews had never been able to figure out exactly why the wing had an alert commitment. Since Maintenance only kept the twenty-millimeter cannon loaded and the aircraft were never launched, they did not see much sense to it all. There was one point of common agreement: they hated it.
The look on Shaw’s face warned Fairly that the colonel wasn’t convinced. “Sir, outside of flying, there is not a hell of a lot for my troops to do around here. Keeping them busy on the ground is a real headache. Take away the chance to fly, and you’re really punishing them.”
Fairly had touched on Shaw’s biggest morale problem: how to keep his people occupied in their spare time. It distressed the wing commander that it was affecting his pilots and wizzos. “OK, that’s what we’ll do,” he decided. “Bring him in.”
Fairly checked the outer office and found the young lieutenant talking to the secretary. Typical, Fairly thought, he practices charming any available female. Jack Locke marched into the office and reported with a sharp salute. The wing commander kept him standing at attention for a full thirty seconds before returning his salute. Shaw sized Locke up, noticing his properly trimmed hair, brightly shined boots, and flight suit that was properly adjusted, probably within the last few minutes. He fits the image of a fighter pilot, Shaw decided: just under six feet tall, a trim and athletic build, clear blue eyes.
“Lieutenant Locke, your conduct last night was reported on the Security Police blotter. It goes without saying that such actions cannot be tolerated and are unbecoming to an officer. I will not have my officers dancing bare-assed with young ladies around the BOQ. Especially a young lady who happens to be the ambassador’s daughter. Lewd conduct such as this is punishable by court-martial or nonjudicial punishment under Article Fifteen of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Granted, there are mitigating circumstances in this case. Since this is the first time you have been in trouble, I have little desire to end any career you might find in the Air Force.”
Shaw paused, partly for effect. “No doubt, you are aware that the presence of the U.S. Air Force in Egypt is new and we are having a difficult time convincing the Egyptians that we belong in the Middle East. We are here to help encourage the hotheads to leave their neighbors in peace. Any publicity resulting from such an escapade with the ambassador’s daughter will not help our position with the Egyptians.
“Therefore, pending conversations with the ambassador, you are ordered to go low profile. It will depend on the ambassador’s reaction as to the final action I will take. To ensure your low profile, and as your squadron assumes alert tomorrow, you will be in the Barrel for the next seven days. Any questions?”
Jack studied the colonel, knowing that any rebuttal would be wasted breath. Forget mentioning that it had been a private party and the cops should not have entered his rooms unannounced in the first place. “No, sir.”
“One last thing, Lieutenant. If you ever again run around in public with your pecker hanging out, I’ll hang you up by it. Dismissed.” Fairly and Jack saluted the colonel and left the office.
Outside, Fairly said, “You were lucky this time, Jack. I don’t think the ambassador is going to say a thing about it.”
Jack glanced at his squadron commander. “Colonel Fairly, it was a private party. I don’t know who opened that door last night. Probably the same clown who made the complaint. For this I don’t get to fly for a week? A week?”
1
GRAIN KING
The changeover crew of the reconnaissance aircraft slowly gathered outside base operations in the soft, early-morning dark. Colonel Anthony J. Waters glanced out the window as he and the aircraft commander, Captain Kelly, went through the routine of debriefing the crew they were replacing, checking the weather, and filing a flight plan for the upcoming flight. “I haven’t seen Cruzak yet,” Waters said.
“No sweat, Colonel,” the young captain beamed. “He won’t be late for a flight again. He’s already here doing loadmaster duties, helping the other crew clean the bird up before we take it. He’s going to be the highest flying janitor in the Air Force until he cleans his act up.”
Waters glanced at Captain Kelly with a look of resignation. The colonel liked the captain and he was a good pilot who could fly the RC-135 with a smooth and cool hand. But Sergeant Stan Cruzak was only the latest in a string of problems that plagued his crew, and Waters doubted that making the joker an acting loadmaster would help the situation.
Because of the highly sophisticated equipment in the rear of the aircraft, only personnel with a Top Secret Crypto clearance were allowed in the reconnaissance module aft of the flight deck. So when they were TDY (on Temporary Duty) away from their home base, only the crews that kept the aircraft constantly in the air had the necessary clearances to clean and service the cabin. The enlisted crew rotated the cleanup responsibilities, calling it “loadmaster duties,” hating every minute of it.