any Air Force aircraft without demonstrating thorough knowledge of all aircraft systems. With three amused young officers looking on, the big three-star general bellied up to the flight planning table at base operations and got to work.
Samson had more combat flying time than total time for all three of these young bucks put together, and had forgotten more than they would ever know about flying, but now he had to dig deep and pass a damned written “multiple-guess” test. But without hesitating, Samson got down to it—no compromises, no whining, no shortcuts.
That was the way it had always been for him. Having risen through the ranks from airman basic to three-star general over his thirty-year career, Samson’s entire life had been a series of challenges and successes.
In 1968, Terrill Samson, just seventeen years old, had been a high school dropout looking to beat the draft and avoid going to Vietnam and dying in the fields like many of his Detroit gang-banging friends. His parole officer had told him to enlist or face a certain draft notice the minute he turned eighteen; he’d enlisted in the Air Force simply because the Navy’s recruiting office was in a rival gang’s neighborhood. His mother Melba cried as she signed the enlistment papers for her youngest son, and Terrill was made to promise that he would write. He would never even consider disappointing his mother.
Samson had spent most of the early 1970s carrying buckets of hot tar across griddle-hot construction sites, repairing roads and runways all over southeast Asia in the closing years of the Vietnam War. He’d sent all but five dollars of his monthly military paycheck home to his mother, who would write and ask him if he was safe and if he was making anything of himself. He’d become obsessed with finding opportunities to complete school, volunteer for a job, upgrade his skills, or learn a new specialty, just so he could send his mother a new certificate or document chronicling his accomplishments and proving he wasn’t wasting his time.
Since Terrill had no money to do much socializing, he’d spent a lot of time in the barracks, which made him susceptible to a lot of “line-of-sight career development.” His squadron first sergeant had ordered him to get his high school diploma so he could raise his squadron’s education average; Samson had dutifully complied. Another first sergeant had ordered him to reenlist so his own recruitment figures would look good. Samson had complied again. The tall, good-looking, hardworking, successful black soldier had soon become the Air Force’s “poster boy” as the ideal enlisted man; he’d been promoted to staff sergeant in record time, then received an offer to attend Officer Candidate School at Kelly Field in San Antonio, Texas. Anywhere was better than southeast Asia, he and his mother figured, so he’d accepted.
By the end of the Vietnam War, Samson had a bachelor’s degree, an earned commission, and an undergraduate pilot training school slot.
Four years later, as a young captain and B-52 bomber aircraft commander, he had a regular commission and an instructor training slot; twelve years later, he’d earned his first star as the commander of a BIB Lancer bomber wing.
Now Terrill “Earthmover” Samson, often mentioned in the same breath as Colin Powell and Philip Freeman, commanded Eighth Air Force, in charge of training and equipping all of the Air Force’s heavy and medium bomber units. He was widely regarded as one of the most successful and intelligent officers, of any race or background, ever to wear a uniform.
He proved that fact again by scoring a respectable 90 on the EP test and a 100 on the bold print test, then submitted himself to a complete review of the missed questions by the instructor pilot, undergoing free-fire questioning until his IP was satisfied that Samson really knew the answers. Again, no compromises. Samson ran through a quick review of formation flying procedures with another T-38 crew that would be flying with them that afternoon, and after a formation briefing, a review of the “Notices to Airmen” and the weather, Samson filed a flight plan to the practice area, suited up, and got ready to go.
Snug in the rubber G suit secured around his waist and legs, with his backpack parachute slung over one shoulder, and his helmet and a small canvas bag holding approach plates, charts, and the T-38 checklist on his other, he headed out from base ops toward the flight line, waving off the supervisor of flying, who offered to give him a ride out to the jet—it was too beautiful a day to waste in a smelly old runway car. He chatted with his instructor and the other T-38 crew members on the way out to the ramp, talked about what was happening around the world and around town and around the squadron—it wasn’t often that regular crewdogs got to shoot the shit with a three-star general. No pressure of rank here, no official business, no politicking, no “face time” with the boss—just a bunch of Air Force fliers getting ready to do what they loved doing.
Samson had almost made it to his sleek white jet when another car pulled up alongside. “General …”
“I don’t need a ride, thanks,” Samson said for the sixth time in that short walk.
“Yes, you do, sir,” the driver said. “Flash priority-red message waiting for you at the command post.”
Just like that, Terrill Swnson’s idyllic day was over. Messages coming into the Eighth Air Force command center all had priorities attached to them, ranging from “routine” on up. Samson didn’t know what was exactly the highest-priority classification, but the highest he had ever seen was a “flash red”—and that was in 1991, when the world thought the Iraqis had launched chemical weapons at Tel Aviv and the Israelis were getting ready to retaliate with nuclear weapons.
Samson threw his gear into the back of the staff car, shot a salute and a “Sorry, guys” to his crew, and hopped into the front seat. Time to get back to the real world …
“Eighth Air Force, General Samson up.”
“Earthmover, Steve Shaw here,” came the reply. General Steve Shaw, Samson’s boss, was the commander of U.S. Air Force’s Air Combat Command, the man in charge of training and equipping all of the Air Force’s nine hundred bombers, fighters, attack, reconnaissance, and battlefield support aircraft and the ‘400,000 men and women who operated and maintained them. “Pack your bags, you’re going TDY.”
Samson, sitting at the commander’s desk of the Battle Staff Room at the Eighth Air Force command post, replied immediately, “Yes, sir. I’m ready right now. I’ve got a T-38 warmed up for me, in fact.”
“We’ve got a C-20 with some crews and equipment that’ll pick you up out there at Barksdale for a briefing at Whiteman.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll be ready,” Samson said excitedly. Whiteman Air Force Base, near Knob Noster, Missouri, was the home of the B-2A Spirit stealth bomber. Although they had been used in very minor roles in other conflicts, the B-2A bombers weren’t scheduled to go fully operational until later on in 1997. What in hell was going on? “Anything else you can tell me, sir?”
“The Iranians look like they’re going to try to close off the Persian Gulf,” Shaw said. “NSA wants a special task force to put together a quick-response team to hit targets in Iran if the balloon goes up—and the President wants bombers.”
“Yes, sir,” Samson said. “I’m ready to do it. Who’s heading this task force?”
“I don’t know,” was Shaw’s cryptic response. “Top secret, NSA stuff. You’ll get the initial briefing materials on the plane.”
“I understand. I’m ready to go, sir,” Samson said.
“Good luck, Earthmover,” Shaw said. “Whoever’s leading this task force, I know they’re getting the best in the business. When it’s over, come on out to Langley and let me know how it went.”
“You got it, sir,” Samson replied. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Eighth Air Force, out.”
There were a million things running through Terrill Samson’s mind the second he hung up that phone. He should call his wife, tell her he’d be out of town (shit, he thought, what a freakin’ understatement!); he should notify his vice commander, notify the wing commanders, notify his staff, notify “Captain Ellis!”
“Sir?” replied the senior controller on duty at the command post.
Samson was heading to the door as he spoke: “Tell General Andleman I’m on my way to Whiteman and that he’s minding the store. Tell base ops to notify me immediately when the C-20 calls Shreveport Approach inbound for landing. And tell my wife …” He paused, thinking about what he was about to do and what it might mean.
“Tell her I’ll talk to her tonight. I will talk to her tonight.”
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA 16 APRIL 1997, 2055 HOURS LOCAL
The new waitress quit after only one day—something about how life was too short to work for a “stressed- out bulldog hyped on speed,” or some such comment like that—so the owner of the little tavern on the Sacramento River near Old Sacramento had to fill in waiting tables himself.
