Normally, pilots in charge of Air Force aircraft were the commanders of the crew regardless of rank, and the captain of this particular RC-135 insisted on maintaining every inch of his control over the radio specialists and translators that manned the module. But Waters was the module commander and in charge of their mission — intelligence gathering and monitoring communications. Supposedly, he didn’t have to concern himself with the more mundane problems of flying the airplane and looking after the crew. That fell to the aircraft commander, who took his orders from the module commander. So Waters felt like a highly paid passenger, something he chalked up to the Air Force’s having too many colonels and not enough jobs for them.
First Lieutenant William G. Carroll was waiting for them when they walked out of Ops and headed toward the heavily guarded plane. Waters liked the young intelligence officer, who was also the best translator on the crew. Carroll was dark complected, slender, of medium height, and had an easy manner that hid a high intellect. “Anything new for us to be worried about on this go-round?” the colonel asked.
“No, sir,” Carroll said. “All the crazies are quiet and nothing has changed since the last time we flew. Should be a quiet twelve hours. I’ll brief the flight crew after we take off.”
The two security guards who would fly on this mission met the crew at the break in the rope that surrounded the RC-135. The Air Force had assigned a security team to maintain a constant guard on its latest and most valuable reconnaissance platform. The RC-135 never took off without two guards and a K-9 guard dog on board in case the aircraft had to divert into a civilian field for an emergency. Although the guards knew each of the crew, they carefully checked the restricted area badge of each person before allowing them past the barrier. Waters was the last through and paused, aware that once they launched, the guards would be restricted to the small compartment at the crew entrance door with the dog for the long flight. “Hell of a way to mess up your day,” Waters said.
“No problem,” one replied, “if Cruzak will stop bothering the dog.”
A ground power unit was roaring nearby, supplying power to the aircraft, and Waters could barely hear the angry barking and howling of the well-trained K-9 coming from inside the aircraft. “What the—” Waters strode quickly up the steps leading to the crew entrance door. He had never heard the dog bark before.
He caught up with the pilot as they pushed through the knot of people standing and laughing in the entrance. Inside, Cruzak was crouched on the deck on all fours, barking furiously at the dog that was in its cage, ready for the flight. The dog responded in kind and the two were setting up a tremendous wail. Waters stifled a smile and brushed his dark, unruly hair back, shaking his head in amusement.
“Cruzak! What the hell are you doing?” Captain Kelly shouted, adding to the confusion.
The sergeant twisted his head and looked at the pilot. He did not move from in front of the cage. “Sir! I’m the loadmaster on this United States Air Force aircraft, right?”
The pilot nodded, dumbfounded.
“I checked the regulations, sir! As loadmaster I am required to brief all passengers who are not regularly assigned crew members on safety procedures.” With that, he turned back to the dog and resumed his barking and growling.
The pilot stepped forward, reaching for the collar of the young sergeant. Waters grabbed the captain’s shoulder and pulled him back before he touched Cruzak. “Get this beast into the air, Captain Kelly. I’ll sort this one out.” The young pilot looked at Waters, relieved that he had taken charge of the problem, and retreated into the cockpit. Waters motioned the rest of the crew into the module. “Hold on, Stan. We need to talk.”
The dog quieted as the sergeant stood up. “What’s going, on Stan? You can do better than this.”
“Aah, Colonel,” he shrugged, holding his head down in front of the tall colonel, “the captain just gets bent out of shape over the wrong things. If he were like you, there’d be no problem.”
“Captain Kelly has to run the crew, you know that. You’ve got to help him or he can’t do his job.”
“That’s the problem, Colonel. He won’t let us help him. He doesn’t tell us when to do our job, he tells us how to do it. And I know how to do my job better than anyone.”
Cruzak was right. The problem was not the sergeant; it was Captain Kelly. “OK, cool it for now. We’ll talk later.”
“Thanks, Colonel. I’ll do it right.” Cruzak hurried to his position, ready to work.
Waters had known for a week that Kelly needed to be replaced, but he had hoped the captain would get the crew under control. He hated the thought of making a decision that would ruin Kelly’s career. But he decided to do what was necessary after the mission was over. It’s time to retire, he thought. You’re going nowhere, in command of nothing, and hurting people you like.
The alert shack was an afterthought tacked onto Alexandria South Air Base. When the Americans had finally wrangled the Egyptians into letting them occupy the base built by the Russians during the early 1960s, they had found the buildings poorly constructed and in need of massive repairs. It would have been cheaper to tear most of them down and start over. But the Egyptian government would not allow any new construction on the base and the Americans were forced into a major renovation project using Egyptian labor.
After the wing had picked up the commitment to keep two Phantoms on alert, two trailers had been towed to a spot near the flight line for the crews to stay in. For some reason, that satisfied the Egyptians. The four crew chiefs that launched the alert aircraft occupied one trailer, and the pilots and WSOs the other. The sergeants had scrounged around and turned their trailer into a plush lounge where the air conditioner always worked. The officers’ trailer remained as it was delivered: barely livable. The two trailers’ official title, “Quick Response Alert Facility,” was quickly redubbed the “alert shack.”
Thunder Bryant rapped on the door of the bedroom where Jack was sleeping. “Yo’, Jack. Colonel Fairly has scheduled himself with Johnny Nelson in the backseat for the Barrel today. He’ll be out here in about twenty minutes.” That would get the pilot’s attention and stir him into action.
A groan came from behind the bedroom door. “Can you meet me in the chiefs’ trailer in a few minutes?”
A crew chief welcomed Thunder with a mug of fresh coffee before returning to the window overlooking the flight line. The captain joined him, waiting for Jack to come out from the officers’ trailer. A dark frown drew his eyes into a squint when he saw a pretty young girl come out of the trailer first. “That boy is thick. Will he ever learn?”
“She was here two nights ago,” the chief said to Thunder. “The ambassador’s daughter? Where does he find ’em around this hole?”
Bryant shook his head. “Who knows? One day, that boy… ” Thunder was aware that sooner or later he would have to stop running interference for his pilot. But protecting people and blocking for them was his nature. After all, he’d worked his way out of the ghetto in South Central Los Angeles by being the best guard in the history of L.A. high school football.
A scholarship to UCLA was a natural fringe benefit. There, he learned how much a guard could hurt someone when he didn’t do his job. In his sophomore year, the team’s phenomenal quarterback had become his best friend and during a hard-fought game, Thunder missed a block that let two opponents swarm over his teammate. The quarterback’s wrist was broken in the pileup and never correctly healed, ending his career in football. And while no one blamed Thunder for the accident, he saddled himself with responsibility for it.