Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (28 page)

           
“But I’m not the radar nav any
more—”

 
          
“No,
you’re not, you’re the seventh man, Patrick. Sorry to sound corny, but you’re
the soul of the Old Dog.”

 
          
She
squeezed his hand, picked up her helmet bag, and walked off. He saw Wendy then,
watching him once again from the back of the conference room. He went over to
her. “How do you feel, Mrs. McLanahan?”

           
“Wonderful. Happy. Nervous. Excited.
I’ve got butterflies the size of B-52S in my stomach ... Are you going to be
okay?”

           
“Sure.”

           
“Wish you were going with us. You
deserve it more than anyone else.” She could tell he was unconvinced. She
smiled at him. “When should we break the news?”

 
          
“At
the post-flight reception tonight.”

 
          
“Can’t
wait.” She gave him a kiss and hurried off to join her crew.

 
          
He
called out behind her. “Good luck. See you on the ground.”

 
          
Wendy
flashed him an exaggerated thumbs-up. “Piece of cake,” she called out as she
rushed off to catch the crew bus.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
As
the crew of the new Megafortress Plus headed off to begin their mission, StaflP
Sergeant Rey Jacinto was nearing the end of his tour of duty on the graveyard
shift, on patrol guarding Hangar Number Five at the flight line at Dreamland.
It was the absolute pits.

 
          
He
had done everything wrong. After four years as an Air Force security guard he
knew how to prepare himself for a change in shifts—plenty of exercise, the
right amount of rest, not too much food, no caffeine or alcohol twelve hours
before the shift. But this time everything had gone to hell. His wife had car
trouble Monday afternoon and so he was up all morning towing it to his
brother-in-law’s place. It had been hot, dusty work and he couldn’t resist a
couple of beers at two o’clock in the afternoon—that only violated the
eight-hour rule by two hours. No big deal.

 
          
His
body began asking him for sleep at three o’clock, but the car needed a new
water pump and his brother-in-law insisted they could do it before he had to
leave. Then, to top it all off, he sat down at six o’clock for homemade pizza. Knowing
that he hadn’t had any sleep in twelve hours and he wasn’t going to get any in
the next twelve, he downed nearly a whole pot of coffee after polishing off
four huge, thick slices of pizza.

 
          
Rey
felt pretty good as he reported for duty at seven-thirty for the
shift-briefing, inspection, weapons checkout and post changeover, but when he
parked his armored assault vehicle in front of Hangar Number Five, things began
catching up with him. The combination of caffeine and lack of rest made his
muscles jittery. The night air was cold, so he turned up the heat in his V-ioo
Commando armored car, which only increased his drowsiness. He had brought his
study materials for his bachelor-degree class, but the thought of even trying
to listen to an hour’s worth of audio textbooks on micro-economics was too
much.

 
          
By
four
A.M.,
four hours from
changeover, Sergeant Jacinto was struggling to stay awake. Everything was quiet
on the radios—no exercises, alerts, weapon movements, nothing. With the B-52
down the way in Hangar Three being readied for a flight, a security exercise
would be too disruptive and would not be called. The engineers who had been
working on the XF-34A DreamStar in Hangar Five had long since departed, and the
munitions-maintenance troops weren’t scheduled to arrive until after his
shift-change. Even nature was conspiring to screw him up. Thin clouds blocked
most of the bright moonlight, so the ramp and most of the area were completely
dark, and there were no birds or animals making their usual noises on the dry
lakebed aircraft ramp. It was dark, quiet morning. If he didn’t go completely
crazy he was going to die from the strain of trying to stay awake.

 
          
Rey
had just completed his hourly walkaround inspection of Hangar Five, checking
all the doors and exits. He was so bored that he even began to pick up scraps
of paper and pieces of junk on the ramp. He returned to his truck and keyed the
radio.

 
          
“Red
Man, this is Five Foxtrot.” Red Man was HAWC’s Security Control Center.

 
          
“Go
ahead, Five.”

 
          
“Requesting
ten mike for relief.”

 
          
There
was a pause, then: “Five, that’s your fourth potty break tonight.”

 
          
“It’s
Rey’s time of the month,” someone else on the security net chimed in.

 
          
“Cut
the chatter,” the security controller ordered. “Five Foxtrot, unable at this
time. Stand by. Break. Rover Nine, this is Red Man. Over.”

 
          
“Rover
Nine, go.” Rover Nine was one of only two M113 armored combat vehicle-equipped
crews that cruised around the huge compound, doing errands and relieving the
post guards as necessary; they had numbers higher than two to hide the fact
that there were only two of these heavily armed roving patrols on the flight
line.

 
          
“Five
Foxtrot requests relief for ten mike ASAP.”

 
          
“Stand
by,” came the reply in an exasperated voice. A few moments later: “Red Man,
we’re at the shack getting coffee— Five Foxtrot’s been drinking the stuff like
it’s going out of style.” Rey Jacinto cringed as his code name was broadcast on
the net—boy, was he going to get it when this shift was over. Good thing none of
the other guards could leave their posts to get on his case. “We’ll be another
ten here, then we need to check in with the main gate. Ask Five Foxtrot if this
is a number two or if he can use the piddle pack. Over.”

 
          
Rey
was fed up with all this—they weren’t letting him off easy tonight. He was just
bored and sleepy. He keyed his microphone: “Break. Red Man, this is Five
Foxtrot. Cancel request for relief. Request the comedians in Rover Nine bring
some water when they’re done stuffing their faces at the flight line kitchen.
Over.”

 
          
“Roger,
Five Foxtrot. Rover Nine, you copy?”

 
          
“Affirmative.
Advise Five Foxtrot to stop massaging his little one-eyed helmeted reptile and
stand by. Rover Nine out.”

 
          
There
were a few more comments on the net—no one liked to give the hot-dogs on Rover
Nine the last word—but soon silence once again descended over the area.

 
          
By
now Rey was struggling to keep his eyelids open. The worst part of any guard’s
tour, no matter how well one prepared, was the hour or two just before sunrise.
It was a barrier, a psychological one—the body demanded sleep at this hour no
matter how much rest it had earlier. Rey Jacinto’s head was bobbing up and down
off his chest. He had already stripped off his fatigue jacket, flak jacket and
webbing so as much cold air could hit his skin as possible. It wasn’t helping.

 
          
He
was thankful to see the lights of a big blue Stepvan supply truck check in at
the outer perimeter. The blue “bread truck” van, towing a missile trailer,
headed right for him. He was feeling a little ornery by now, and this was his
chance to get his blood pumping again. Quickly he pulled on his combat gear and
webbing as the truck pulled up.

 
          
When
the truck stopped in front of Jacinto’s armored car, he got out, carrying his
M-16 rifle at port arms, and ran in front and off to the driver’s side of the
van. He held up the rifle, filled his lungs with cold desert air and yelled,
“Driver! Stop your engine, leave your headlights on and everyone out of the
van. Now!”

 
          
The
driver and one other man, both in Air Force green fatigues, jumped out of the
van and stood before Jacinto in the glare of the van’s headlights. The younger
man, a two-striper, was shaking. The driver, a burly technical sergeant, was
surprised but kept his composure as he raised his hands. “What’s going on?”

 
          
“Step
away from the truck,” Jacinto ordered. Both men did.

 
          
“What’s
going—?”

 
          
“Quiet!
Don’t move!” Jacinto still held his rifle at port arms— his voice was enough to
convince the two men. Jacinto rested the automatic rifle on his hip with one
hand and pulled his walkie-talking from his web belt.

 
          
“Red
Man, this is Five Foxtrot. Two males intercepted at Five, driving a blue
Stepvan with missile trailer. Executing full nighttime challenge. Over.”

 
          
“Copy,
Five Fixtrot,” the security controller replied. There was a hint of humor in
the controller’s voice—he knew Jacinto was going to have a little fun with his
visitors. “Do you require assistance?”

 
          
“Negative.
Out.”

 
          
The
driver of the truck said, “Sergeant, would you mind—?” “Silence. Turn around.
Both of you.”

 
          
“I’ve
got authorization—”

 
          
“I
said
turn.
” They did. “Where’s your
I.D. cards?”

 
          
“Back
pocket.”

 
          
“One
hand, two fingers. Remove your I.D.” They removed wallets from back pockets.
“Over your head. Remove your I.D. cards.” They did. “Drop them slowly,
carefully, at your feet, then take three steps forward.” When they moved away
Jacinto said, “Now kneel. Hands on top of your heads.”

           
“Give us a break, Sarge—”

 
          
“Kneel. ”

           
As they did, Jacinto walked over to
the I.D. cards, picked them up, and examined them. They were bent, dirty,
grease- encrusted and barely readable—typical maintenance troop’s I.D. cards.
Jacinto stepped around the two kneeling men and shined a flashlight in their
faces. The faces matched the photos. “I need job slips now. Where are they?”

 
          
“Upper
left pocket.”

 
          
“Get
them out.” The two technicians pulled crumpled slips of paper from their
pockets and put them on the ramp. Jacinto picked them up and checked them under
the flashlight’s beam. He couldn’t check the job numbers—he’d left his
clipboard with the job numbers from the squadron in his truck— but he checked
the MMS squadron supervisor’s stamped sign- off block on the reverse side. The
stamp and signature were the most frequently omitted part of the job ticket,
and both were required before any work could begin on any of the birds on the
line. But these guys were on the ball—both had the required stamp with the
familiar signature of the MMS NCOIC.

 
          
“Okay,
Sergeant Howard, Airman Crowe,” Jacinto said, looping the M-16 back onto his
right shoulder. “Everything checks okay.”

 
          
“You’re
damned right it does,” Howard said, hauling himself to his feet. Jacinto held
out the job tickets and I.D. cards to them. Howard took his I.D. card and job
ticket back with a snap of his wrist; Crowe took his with relief.

 
          
“Why
can’t you bozos do your little games during the day?” Howard said. He motioned
to Crowe, who seemed to be cemented in place. “Move it, Airman. We’re behind
schedule as it is.”

 
          
“Wasn’t
expecting you till nine,” Jacinto said.

 
          
“I
wasn’t expecting to
be
here until
nine,” Howard said angrily. “So naturally I get a call in the middle of the
night telling me they want the plane in premaintenance right now. I know better
than to answer the damned phone after nine
P.M.”

 
          
Jacinto
nodded. “I hear that.” He put his own wife and kids on strict instructions not
to answer the phone after nine
P.M.