times. But today it’s going to be some tough flying. We’re breaking all the rules, you know.’
‘No, I don’t know,’ Steve said. ‘Enlighten me.’
‘KC-135s are converted Boeing 707s, flying fuel tanks. Carries about 120,000 pounds of JP-4 aviation fuel. You’ve got your pilot, co-pilot, navigator and an NCO in the rear who operates the refueling boom. The boom is an extendable piece of equipment, deploys from the rear. Job of the other aircraft is to fly tight formation directly behind and below the KC-135. The guy at the rear, the “boomer”, maneuvers the boom into the second aircraft’s refueling port. Airborne refueling at its best.’
‘And what rules are we breaking?’
Steve heard his captain laugh. ‘Thing is, the receiving aircraft — us — is supposed to be below and behind the KC-135. Flying constant altitude and speed. But according to the ACARS message, we’re going to be flying just above the KC-135 as it’s dumping its fuel, and we’re both going to descend at the same rate. So that fucking anthrax flies into the fuel cloud. And, by the by, we’ll be flying into the fuel as well. Might screw up our instrumentation. Might cloud up our windscreens. Might cause the engines to choke up and cause a crash. Nice stuff like that.’
‘Holy shit,’ Steve said.
‘Nothing holy about it, pal.’
A message crackled in Steve’s earphones from the regional ATC: ‘Ah, AirBox one-five, your tanker, Cheyenne Six, is 270 for fifteen miles, heading three-six-zero at flight level two-two-zero.’
Steve toggled the radio microphone, ‘This is AirBox one-five, flying heading three-five-zero for rendezvous.’
‘Maintain flight level two-one-zero and two hundred and fifty knots. Contact Cheyenne Six on second radio on frequency one thirty-two point five.’
Trent said, ‘Steve, I’ll talk to the tanker. You keep talking to ATC.’
Steve saw Trent dial in the radio frequency and key his own radio microphone. ‘Ah, Cheyenne Six, this is AirBox one-five.’
‘AirBox one-five, this is Cheyenne Six. Air National Guard, at your service.’
Trent replied. ‘Glad to see you, guys. You got the brief, right?’
The pilot said, ‘Got it. Let’s do it.’
Trent swallowed. Just beyond a range of mountains, the gray form of the KC-135 came into view.
‘All right,’ Steve said. ‘We’re visual. We’ll be coming up behind vou shortly.’
‘Roger, AirBox one-five. You’re cleared in.’
Steve said to his pilot, ‘Air National Guard. Christ.’
Trent said, ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Weekend warriors.’
Trent was silent and Steve thought his captain hadn’t heard him. Then Trent corrected him.
‘Steve, most of these weekend warriors have ten or twenty years’ flying under their belt. They have a hell of a lot more experience then some active-duty guys. And these weekend warriors are putting their asses on the line to make sure that you and I don’t end the day as smoking pieces of charcoal — try not to forget that, all right?’
His face burning, Steve said, ‘I won’t.’
In an Air Force KC-135 designated as Pegasus Four — the aircraft was almost ten years older than the oldest member of its four-person crew — the navigator, Lt Jeannette Smith, tapped the pilot on his shoulder and said, ‘Sir, incoming flash message.’
The co-pilot and pilot both read the message, then looked up at each other. The co-pilot, Lt Travis Wood, said, ‘Can you believe this ?’
‘These times, I can believe almost anything. Travis, get the rendezvous going with ATC. Looks like we don’t got much time.’
‘Roger, sir.’
‘All right, let’s do it,’ the pilot said. He toggled the intercom and said, ‘Pilot to boomer.’
‘Sergeant Hiller, sir.’
‘Come forward, will you? We’ve just been assigned a mission. Two missions if we can handle the first one well — and it’s screwy as all hell.’
‘Bless the Air Force, sir. I’ll be right up.’
The navigator looked at the message again. ‘AirBox…your dad works for AirBox, doesn’t he?’
Captain Thomas Tuthill said, ‘Yes. He’s head of the machinists’ union.’
‘What a coincidence,’ she said.
‘Yeah,’ Captain Tuthill said, seeing the Kentucky landscape unfold beneath them. ‘Hell of a coincidence.’
Aboard AirBox 107, Carrie Floyd maneuvered the jet to the intercept heading that had been sent to them by Air Traffic Control, and said, ‘Sean, Alaska is sounding better and better.’
Sean said, ‘So now you tell me…Carrie, check the fuel gauge, all right?’
She gave it a glance. ‘I see it.’
‘We’ll be right at the edge. If it doesn’t go right we’ll be sucking fumes…’
‘Then it has to go right, doesn’t it?’
‘Love your attitude.’
Carrie said, ‘Glad it was that and not my tits that attracted you.’
‘Among other things.’
‘Co-pilot, do me a favor, start looking for the Air Force, ail right?’
‘Sure.’
Aboard AirBox 22, Captain Hugh Glynn rubbed at his chest again as the indigestion burned and burned at him. But the pain was forgotten when his co-pilot, Stacy Moore, said, ‘There. I’ve got it at eleven o’clock!’
He saw the familiar shape of the KC-135 out there on the horizon, felt his chest tighten with excitement — a welcome change from indigestion. Stacy was excited and who could blame her? Less than a half-hour ago, they were looking forward to becoming one of the first civilian aircraft to be blown out of the sky since 9/11 — a hell of an achievement that he could cheerfully have skipped.
Now, now there was a chance. A chance to make it through this day alive.
In his earphones, he heard Stacy say, ‘Pegasus Four, AirBox 22, we’re visual…’
The strong voice came back. ‘Roger, AirBox 22, you’re cleared in. Time is short, ma’am, so let’s get going.’
‘A pleasure, Pegasus Four,’ Hugh sent back. ‘A real pleasure.’
Steve Jayson of AirBox 15 had flown on some serious ass-puckering missions, including one in a sandstorm over Kuwait, and another time, coming into Gander when he was flying FedEx, with one engine and then two quitting on him just before landing. But nothing had prepared him for this particular mission, with his asshole crawling up to his mouth.
Ahead of them was the steel-gray KC-135, flying slightly below them, and behind the jet, trailing out, was the refueling boom, with a tiny wing on each side, spraying out fuel, a pinkish cloud that spread out wide. Trent was flying so tough and hard, chatting it up with Cheyenne Six, and Steve’s job was to monitor the instruments, especially the altitude, engine performance and time.
‘AirBox one-five, maintain two thousand feet.’
‘Roger that, Cheyenne Six. Maintaining two thousand feet.’
The KC-135 was so close that it seemed to fill the sky in front of them. In a bubble just above the refueling boom, a man was visible, maneuvering the boom. The boomer, he was called, and Steve was praying that the older man knew what in hell he was doing.
‘Looking good, AirBox 15.’
‘Thank you, Cheyenne Six.’
Another look at the gauges. Everything looked normal and level at two thousand feet. That was for sure. And down there, in the belly — the belly of the beast — that damnable anthrax was being sprayed. If the guys on the
