“1157, this is Four-Seven Actual. Put the 1157 Actual on. Then get off.”
“Roger, sir,” Lt. Ferlazzo said, hitting the hold button and switching to intercom. “Pilot, Four-Seven Actual wants you.” He didn’t ask the pilot if he wanted to take the call. Unless you’re in the bird’s pisser or a declared emergency, if the squadron commander calls you say “Yes, sir!” and pick up the horn.
Captain Richard C. “Casey” Moore sat up out of his half doze and looked at the co quizzically. “Okay, what did you do now?”
Casey Moore was 26, brown of hair and eye, just below medium height with “an erect carriage and firm demeanor.” Said so right on his Officer Evaluation Reports. That’s because his various squadron commanders hadn’t wanted to say “who is a wise-ass that likes to tease PJs until an incident occurs.” Among other things, he was one hell of a C-130 driver and it wasn’t like anybody ever got hurt.
Without waiting for an answer he hit the accept button. “1157 Actual.”
“1157 Actual, Squadron Actual,” the squadron commander replied. “Divert Tblisi Military Airfield for refueling and pick-up of quote Friendly Nation relief workers end quote. Coordinate with military attache, United States Embassy, Georgia, Colonel Randolph Mandrell. Transport of relief workers classified Top Secret Ribbon Blade. Obtain vocal orders Colonel Mandrell re Operation Ribbon Blade. Colonel Mandrell has full operational control 1157 in re Ribbon Blade. Do you copy?”
Casey blinked for a just a second and then stared at the windshield as if looking for divine aid.
“Four-Seven Actual, 1157. Copy divert Tblisi Military Airfield, contact Georgian mil attache, Colonel Mandrell re pick up of Friendly Nation quote aid workers end quote. Pick up classified Ribbon Blade. Operational details via mil attache. Mil attache has operational control. Verification code, over?” He easily recognized the squadron commander’s voice and the orders were coming over an encrypted satellite link. But he also knew that if he didn’t verify Four-Seven Actual, who was a real prick, would jump his ass.
“Verification, code Four-Delta-Five-Niner.”
“Ferz,” Casey said, hitting the hold button. “I need a verification on order changes, Four-Delta-Five-Niner.”
“Yeah, confirm,” Ferlazzo said after a moment. “It’s an updated code.”
“Four-Seven Actual, 1157. Verification confirmed. Diverting to Tblisi at this time.”
“Roger, out.”
“We’re going where?” the co-pilot asked. Captain Jim Sanderson was a regular co-pilot for Casey but not because Casey trusted his driving. Quite the opposite. In fact, he sometimes suspected that Casey dragged him around the world on one weird-assed mission after another purely to take his monthly pay at poker.
And in that he would be right. He also was a great pawn to use in Casey’s ongoing low-level war with the entire Para-Jumper corps. When Casey knew they were hunting a hostage, say because somebody had casually walked off with one of their damned gnomes, he could usually arrange for the co to be in the “wrong place at the wrong time” to get picked off by the PJs. Hell better than giving up his nav.
The 47th was a “multi-mission” squadron. They had a variety of transport aircraft ranging from Beavers to C-17s with multiple variants and a group of pilots that were just as ecclectic. Most of the pilots were cross-trained in special operations missions, however the squadron, since it wasn’t a dedicated special ops squadron, tended to do mostly grunt hauling work. However, because it wasn’t listed as a primary trash-hauler squadron they weren’t first on the list for that, either. In fact, in the increasingly overtasked cargo aircraft field, it was the one squadron that had a relatively low operational tempo. That meant, however, that the pilots could get more training on more different missions than most of the overtasked squadrons. Even the spec-ops squadrons had a hard time digging up HALO drop qualified crews; the 47th had seven including Flight 1157.
“Tblisi,” the navigator said. Captain Cassandra “Cassie” /// could have been Casey’s sister. 5’ 5”, brown of hair and eye, there was even a slight facial resemblance. But features that were handsome on Casey came out as beautiful on Cassie. “Capital of the country of Georgia. It’s not far off our flight-path anyway. If we hadn’t tanked in Kiev we’d have had to land there and tank. Come to heading one-three-zero. Tblisi Military Control is on frequency 1957. Notation says that it’s closed to unauthorized birds, though and ‘limited English.’ ”
“Oh, joy,” Casey said. “Co, freq.”
“Roger,” Bill said, leaning forward to switch the radios.
“Just another day in paradise,” Casey said, taking the plane off of auto-pilot and banking slightly to the left. “Oh, somebody ought to tell the load-master we’re picking up some passengers.”
“They can sit on the hay bales,” Cassie said.
“How’s the company?” Captain Jean-Pierre “J.P.” Guerrin asked the First Sergeant as he came into the CP.
“Pissed,” First Sergeant Michael Kwan replied, shrugging. Kwan was a short-coupled Chinese-American with eighteen years and a bit in uniform. He’d started off in the 82nd Airborne, transferring to the Ranger Batts when he was a staff sergeant. He’d spent the next fourteen years doing the “Ranger Thang” all over the world. Nobody but his very very close friends dared use his early nickname, “Gook”, to his face. “They’ll get over it. But they’re getting pretty damned sick of the sandbox. They’d been looking forward to some time on River Street.”
“Aren’t we all,” the CO said. “The good news, what I have so far, is that we’re not going to the sandbox. We’re going to Georgia, the country just to avoid confusion, and doing some training with a local mountain infantry group. That’s all I have right now, but feel free to spread it around. Mountain ops, about like New York this time of year. Pack snivel gear even if we’re not going to use it. There is a threat in the area; the Chechens move around in the same mountains. Current plan is an airborne op into a secured DZ that’s where we’ll be basing. I’m told there are basing facilities.”
“So it’s a training op?” Kwan asked. “Rumor was that we were dropping hot.” Carrying live rounds instead of training ammunition.
“We are,” Guerin said with a grimace. ” Good training. Either somebody wants to see if we can really do it or the Chechen threat is worse than anticipated. I’ll do an op-order this evening at 1730. Birds will be at the airfield at 0430, civilian. We’re flying to Ukraine.”
“And then?” Kwan asked.
“That’s apparently still being debated by higher,” J.P replied. “We’re going to Georgia. How is still up in the air. So an all nighter and a long flight with who knows what at the end.”
“We can sleep when we’re dead,” Kwan said, grinning. To be a Ranger for fourteen years you had to positively enjoy misery and Kwan was a legend on that score.
“Tblisi Military Air Field this is USAF Flight 1157, C-130, requesting clearance and approach.” Casey switched to intercom and looked over at the co. “Now to see if they speak English.”