with satellite reconnaissance photos, and duty in the United States Air Force had begun to feel suspiciously like military service. With two F-15’s on runway alert, that meant that the pilot and navigator-bombardier sat in the cockpit for four hours at a time, the aircraft connected to a huffer to supply electrical power, waiting for the word to go. The paperback he’d slipped into one pocket of his flight suit made the boredom bearable, but there was not much he could do about the heat. Despite the supply of electrical power to the aircraft cooling system, the temperature inside the cockpit had been rising steadily over the last hour. It was, he suspected, somewhere around ninety-five degrees right now, but he avoided checking to make certain. He was miserable — no need to confirm it with instrumentation.
This was not how service in United States Air Force was supposed to be. Particularly not for pilots. Alerts should be pulled in air-conditioned bunkers sitting immediately adjacent to the airfield, the aircraft kept in the high state of readiness by the enlisted technicians. If necessary, the pilots could burst out of the bunker, clamber up the boarding ladders, finish off the preflights, and be airborne in well under five minutes.
So what was the point of sitting here? A few minutes here and there — yes, sure, he understood that could spell the difference between a successful mission and not, but he still felt that there had to be a less unpleasant way to do it.
“Flight One, Tower. Radio alert launch, rollout authorized.” A stream of numbers followed, and the tower ended with the demand “Acknowledge.”
He jumped at the first squawk, then slipped the paperback into his pocket and grabbed his grease pencil to jot down coordinates. “Flight One, acknowledge. Say again coordinates.” He scribbled them down, and punched them into the onboard flight computer, verifying that the check sum matched up with the last digit of the sum of the other numbers. Coordinates were vitally important in this environment, where there were no landmarks or terrain to guide off. “Say again the composition?”
“Unknown. Reconnaissance launching right now, along with extraction. Provide air cover to extraction team, then join on Blue Leader for alternate attack profile.”
Great. Baby-sitting the helicopter to get the troops out. By the time they got them safely out of the area, whatever it was that was kicking up sand would be flaming bits of metal on the desert. It wasn’t that he begrudged the others the primary attack mission — hell, he had his chance at times — and sure, the troops deserved to get out safely. It was just that after sitting for four hours in the scalding cockpit, he ought to be entitled to a little more fun.
All around him, alert aircraft were spinning up, rolling out for the runway. He scanned the area behind them, watching as the helicopter at the far end of the field rose steadily into the air, then settled down and turned north. Nothing between here and there that should be a danger to it, at least not according to the briefing. Most of the antiair sites were little more that piles of molten metal now, although there was always a chance that someone had managed to sneak a mobile setup or Stinger into the area.
He gave the helicopter a slight head start, then launched and vectored over to it. He checked in with the helo pilot, confirmed good comms and their destination, watching with envy as the others streaked off to attack a truck convoy. As the helicopter progressed toward its target, he circled the airspace above, keeping a sharp eye out for any movement or trouble.
Fifteen minutes later, the primary mission was complete. The small band of Marines had boarded the helicopter in just a few seconds and the helo was heading for base. Freed from his baby-sitting duties, he checked in with Blue Leader One.
“Just about done,” Blue Leader replied. “You want a piece of the action, you got to show up earlier.”
“Like I had a choice.” He shook his head, disgusted. Last out, last in. The others would be headed for the officers club by the time he got his bird buttoned up for the night.
“Join on us,” Blue One directed, confirming his suspicions. With a sigh, he turned toward the other aircraft, about thirty miles away, and headed for the tail end of the pack.
“They sure took their sweet time,” a corporal muttered, his voice barely audible over the hard
“Wasn’t bad,” Parker corrected. “Sometimes they don’t show up at all.”
There wasn’t much point in trying to carry on a casual conversation while in the helicopter. The noise drowned out just about everything, even if there had been anything to say. Each man was alone with his thoughts, seeing the images again of the blackened, distorted bodies rendered almost inhuman by the heat. It didn’t take long for a dead body to spoil in this weather, even given the lack of moisture in the air. The bloody corpses swarming with flies, skin green and sagging, would remain with them for many days.
“What do you think happened to them?” the corporal shouted, oblivious to his squad mate’s desire not to talk. “Were they dead?”
The staff sergeant shook his head, not because he didn’t want to know but because he didn’t want to face the possibility. There was something damn odd about the whole business, real damn odd, starting with the fact that the spooks had ordered in an air-retrieval mission instead of expecting them to hump it back to their rendezvous point.
“Looks like they missed one,” Airless’s bombardier remarked, touching the button to focus the display. “One truck, maybe. Not ours.”
“You can tell that from the radar?”
“No. I asked. Everybody’s safe and home in the barn.”
“It’s not moving,” Airless said dubiously.
“Then even you ought to be able to hit it.” His bombardier snorted at the gibe.
“What the hell.” Airless put the F-15 into a hard turn, banking toward the target. Forty, maybe fifty seconds away — they’d shoot a quick round into it, watch the flames, and then at least feel like they’d done something for God and country. Not as satisfying as hitting a moving target, but better than nothing at all. “Control, diverting to investigate target of opportunity.” Target of opportunity, hell. It was probably just a broken-down vehicle. Not much of a contribution to the war.
“Roger, acknowledge. Area clearance granted. Weapons free.”
Well, that was something. At least no one was going to hassle him about wasting ammo on it. He felt slightly better.
“All yours,” the bombardier said.
“I’ve got it.” Like the bombardier could have done something about it anyway.
The target was dead ahead, alone. It looked like a normal two-ton truck. There was no movement around it. Might be playing possum — but Airless would have to check it out.
He swung around for another pass, dropping down and losing altitude, his hands placed over the controls ready to yank her into afterburner and grab some altitude if anything so much as shivered down there. But there was no reaction, not on the pass.
“At least they could move around some,” his bombardier bitched.
“It’s better than nothing.” Airless swung around for the final pass, transferring his finger to the weapons selector switch. One missile — no more. He waited until the last possible moment and toggled it off. The F-15 shuddered slightly as the weapon left the wings. He broke hard to the right, clearing the area, putting distance between himself and what would soon be a fireball, turning back at the last moment so that they could both watch the impact.
“Yeah!” the bombardier said. The missile hit, and the truck disappeared in a fireball of glaring yellow and brilliant orange that seared the eyeballs. Black smoke boiled out from it, forming a pillar in the still air to match those further away on the horizon from the first team’s attack.
“Control, felt a good one. One shot fired, one truck destroyed. Unless otherwise directed, I’m heading back to base.” He waited, on the off chance at the controller might have another target for them, but was immediately disappointed with a crisp “Roger, acknowledge, return to base.”
“Better than nothing,” Airless said again, still feeling a slight sense of disappointment. “Better than nothing.”
