Steve Jayson of AirBox 15 couldn’t believe who he was hearing in his earphones so he said, ‘Ah, Dispatch, this is AirBox 15, repeat last, over.’
His pilot, Trent Mueller, glanced over at him with a questioning look, and then the voice came again. ‘Guys, this is General Bocks calling in. Can the both of you hear me?’
Steve toggled the microphone switch on the control yoke. ‘Sir, you’ve got us both. Go ahead.’
The General cleared his throat. ‘Guys, I’m not going to sugarcoat a damn thing. You’re in a hell of a spot. A hell of a spot due to decisions I made, bad decisions based on…well, that sounds like an excuse, and this isn’t the time for excuses.’
Fucking understatement of the year, Steve thought to himself. The General said, ‘We’ve gotten most of you safely on the ground. But there’s you and two other flights. Guys, we’re running out of time, and you’re running out of fuel. Those are hard facts. I’m sorry. But we’ve got to send you… we’ve got to send you over the remotest area that’s nearby. We’re going to have you head out to the Ozarks… we’re still trying to come to an answer, we haven’t given up yet, but if we don’t have that answer… we’re going to need you to be over the mountains. Do you understand?’
It was Trent’s turn to reply. ‘Sir, we understand. And I need to know something… sir.’
‘Go ahead, son.’
‘Our families. We need to know that our families will be taken care of. Get everything they need. No bullshit or stalling.’
Bocks said, ‘You got it. No bullshit or stalling. My personal guarantee.’
Trent said, ‘Then you’ll see us over the Ozarks, General. AirBox 15, out.’
Hugh Glynn was the captain of AirBox 22, and when the general signed off the air, his co-pilot, Stacy Moore, said, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand that. What the hell was that all about?’
Hugh said, ‘We’re heading for the Smoky Mountains, Stacy. What else do you need to know?’
‘And what are we going to do when we get there?’
Hugh liked Stacy, had flown with her for several months, admired her skill as a co-pilot and her eye for details, but when it came to the big picture… Jesus. Sometimes she was as thick as a plank. He rubbed at his chest. Damned indigestion was coming back again… he was going to visit his doctor later this week but his schedule looked pretty damn full over the next seventy or so minutes.
‘What do you think?’
‘Our fuel is… oh… oh, no… please…’
‘Stacy, we’re heading to the Smokies. Get the charts out, all right?’
No answer.
Hugh looked over. Tears were in her eyes. ‘Stacy, we need those charts.’
He waited. Wondered what she was going to do. Wondered how this was going to end.
And then Stacy went to her chart pack, and for some reason Hugh felt good, even with the discomfort in his chest. They would go out as professionals. Not in a panicked frenzy.
Something to be happy about, at least.
Carrie Floyd of AirBox 107 sat in silence as they continued to go around in circles. For once Sean was silent as well. They had just gotten off the horn with General Bocks himself, and the brief conversation had just laid it out there. Nowhere to go, nowhere to land. But in a while it would be done. No doubt about that.
She looked at the fuel gauges. Less than an hour to go. Some decisions could be put off, some decisions could be put off forever. But the gauges didn’t lie. They were now outbound to the Poconos, and there was a sort of grim sense of humor there, about her and Sean ending up in that honeymoon paradise, no doubt to be spread over a few mountain peaks in a tumble of wreckage and scorched protein.
And all because of fuel. Ah, the gift of fuel. If there had been some way of getting more fuel into their aircraft, they could stay up another six, eight, twelve hours, with no problem. Oh, shit, they’d be cramped and hungry, but at least they’d be alive. Give the folks on the ground more time to figure out what in hell to do with the little canisters of death they were carrying back there. She recalled all the times back in the Navy, flying the S-3 Viking, and the comfort of knowing that there were usually airborne fueling stations out there, other Vikings modified to carry fuel, Air Force KC-135s and KC-10s, all ready to lower a boom and give you all the fuel you needed.
Fuel. A lifesaver.
God, such a lifesaver.
Carrie rubbed at her tired eyes, stopped. Looked out the windscreen. Thought for a moment. Thought again.
Well, she said to herself.
‘Hey,’ she said to her co-pilot.
‘Hey yourself,’ he said.
‘Sean, did I ever tell you about my grandfather, my dad’s dad?’
‘No, Carrie,’ he said, his voice soft. ‘I don’t think you ever did.’
‘Let me tell you about him,’ she said.
Sean shook his head. ‘Sure. Why the hell not? I could use a good story about now.’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Name was Frank Floyd. Double-F, they called him, when he flew in the Navy. He was in World War Two. Flew Grumman TBMs. Know what TBMs were?’
‘Nope.’
‘Torpedo aircraft. Flew off aircraft carriers, went against Japanese ships. Especially Japanese aircraft carriers. They carried a single torpedo and their job was to fly low, slow and level, heading towards a target. All the while, they’re being shot at by anti-aircraft fire from Japanese ships. Machine-gun fire, anti-aircraft artillery, exploding shells, shrapnel, all being tossed up in front of them. And if that wasn’t enough, Japanese fighter aircraft — Zeroes — were strafing them as they flew in. They made nice fat targets, because they had to be low and slow to drop their torpedoes, and they couldn’t fly evasively. It was the nearest damn thing to a planned suicide mission that the US Navy ever created.’
‘Carrie, this is all just fascinating stuff, but—’
‘One time,’ she pressed on, ‘right after I joined the Navy, I had a nice long talk with him, just before he died. I had done some reading about the torpedo squadrons and found that on an average mission the pilot and gunner had about a twenty percent chance of coming back alive. Can you believe that? Twenty fucking percent. And they still went out, mission after mission. So I asked him. I said, “Grandpa, how in God’s name did you get in that torpedo bomber each time, knowing what was out there for you?” Know what he said?’
‘No, but I guess you’re going to tell me.’
‘He said a twenty percent chance was better than no chance at all, and that a good pilot would do everything and anything to survive. That’s what he said.’
By now Sean was staring at her, his eyes moist with tears. ‘Carrie, what’s the point? What’s going on?’
She said sharply, ‘The point is, my dear heart, is that we still have time, I’m still a good pilot, and we’re not calling it quits at all. Get Dispatch back up. I want to talk to General Bocks. Right away.’
He said, ‘You think he’ll talk to you?’
‘Sure he will,’ Carrie said.
‘Why?’
‘Because the poor bastard is feeling guilty, and that’s half the battle, right there.’
He said, ‘You’re not going to start—’
‘Sean, hurry up. Please. Trust me on this. I’ve got to talk to him. Now.’
He kept on staring at her, and she knew that he wanted answers, but she didn’t want to start discussing, arguing, or debating. She just wanted the damn general on the line.
Sean pressed the radio switch. ‘Ah, Dispatch, this is AirBox one-oh-seven. I have an unusual request for you…’
Now the four of them were in a conference room, away from the low roar of the Operations Center. Brian sat on one side of the table, looking at the three other men. It was coming to an end, and he was exhausted by it all.
