The Americans could not believe what they saw — rows and rows of Soviet-made fighters, all loaded with weapons, parked beside the taxiway as far as the eye could see. “Man, this is incredible,” Fogelman exclaimed. “They’re all MiG-23 Floggers except the blunt-nosed one, which is the Su-17 Fitter, right?”
“Not quite,” Furness said. “The ones with the bullet-shaped radomes are the MiG-23 fighters. The ones with the noses that slope downward are MiG-27 attack planes. God, I don’t believe this … five or six squadrons of Soviet fighters at a Turkish air base — and we land twelve RF-111G bombers right in the middle of them.”
The reception for the Americans upon landing was raucous and dramatic. Ukrainian pilots — it was hard not to think of them as Soviets or Russians — were standing on their plane’s wings, madly waving American and Turkish flags as the Vampires taxied past. A few crazy Ukrainian pilots ran out onto the taxiway and patted the sides of the Vampire bombers before being chased away by Turkish security patrols. A reviewing stand with American, Turkish, Ukrainian, and NATO flags had been set up in front of what looked like the base operations building. The Follow Me truck led the RF-111Gs around the reviewing stand into parking places, and one by one they lined up to the left of Furness’ plane, precisely aligning themselves on her. Using hand signals, Furness directed the other aircraft to sweep their wings forward, open bomb bay doors, run up engines to scavenge oil, shut down engines, and open their canopies. Maintenance men put boarding ladders on both sides of the plane, and long red carpets were thrown out leading from the ladder to the reviewing stand, where several vehicles had pulled up and officers began stepping onto the reviewing stand.
The impromptu arrival show worked to perfection, and the growing crowd of pilots and maintenance technicians applauded and cheered wildly …
… until Rebecca Furness removed her helmet and stepped out of the cockpit, her brown hair unfurling.
The Turkish crews were on the right with a small group of Americans, and it was as if a huge switch in heaven had been thrown and all sound was canceled on that side of the reviewing stand. The Turkish aircrews and commanders were stunned. A woman is climbing down out of the lead aircraft? Their astonishment visibly grew as Lynn Ogden and Paula Norton appeared as well. But as if to highlight the silenced Turkish reaction, the Ukrainian crews were cheering, whistling, jumping up and down and yelling like crazy, as if the three flyers were wearing nothing but grass skirts. The Americans were politely clapping and waving, happy to see their fellow wing members arrive safe and sound. The throng of Ukrainian pilots couldn’t be held back any longer, and a large group of them rushed forward, picked up Rebecca and the other two women, and carried them triumphantly on their shoulders to the foot of the reviewing stand. Soon there was a large crowd of crewmembers surrounding the foot of the podium.
Brigadier General Erdal Sivarek looked as if he was going to explode with indignation as the three women were deposited at his feet. He fidgeted slightly, twitching as if he didn’t know what to do with his hands. His hesitation gave the crews enough time to assemble in front of the podium, and Furness called them to attention. She then stepped forward and said in a loud voice, “Sir, the Seven-Fifteenth Tactical Squadron, reporting as ordered.”
Sivarek finally exploded, shouting something in Turkish; then: “Is this some kind of joke? Who is this woman? General, you will explain this to me. What is this woman doing here?”
Major General Bruce Eyers was hopelessly confused. He looked Furness over — she was still holding her salute, which only appeared to be making Sivarek and his staff officers angrier by the second — and decided she was doing nothing improper. He shot her a quick salute so she would lower her arm, then stepped over to Sivarek and asked, “What’s the problem here, General? This is the crew from Plattsburgh — the RF-111G unit you were told about.”
“She is a woman, General Eyers,” Sivarek said angrily. “You Americans sent a … a woman, in a flight suit, to my base, at a time like this?”
“It’s no big deal, General,” Eyers said easily. “I’m sure she’s a good stick. I know they’re just Reservists, but they got some—”
“Reservists? These are Reservists? What is the meaning of this insult, Eyers? Your President sends female Reservists to my country at our hour of need?”
“Get a grip on yourself, General,” Eyers said, chuckling and slapping the Turkish general hard on the shoulder, which he shrugged off. He pointed to the RF-111Gs parked in front of them and said, “She brought those things in okay, didn’t she?”
“Then she is just a ferry pilot?” Sivarek asked. “She is simply bringing the planes here, and the pilots are arriving in more aircraft?”
“Excuse me, sir,” Furness said, “but I’m not a ferry pilot. I’m Bravo Flight commander of the Seven-Fifteenth Tactical Squadron. All we need is fuel and area charts, and we’re ready to begin air operations.”
Sivarek silenced her with a sharp word in Turkish that was so loud and so harsh that his staff officers nearby jumped in surprise. One officer quickly rushed forward and, jabbering away in Turkish, stepped in between Sivarek and Furness. Furness stumbled backward, surprised more than hurt or insulted.
But what really surprised her was the reaction from Daren Mace, who was standing on the podium beside Lieutenant Colonel Hembree, the 715th Tactical Squadron commander, and Colonel Lafferty, the 394th Air Battle Wing vice commander, who had flown in with Mace and the other maintenance and support personnel the night before; not to mention Mark Fogelman. Mace grabbed the Turkish officer from behind and whipped him around so they were face to face. Fogelman rushed forward and, simultaneously with Mace, body-tackled the Turkish officer down onto the tarmac.
Bedlam erupted. Turkish security guards shouldered their rifles and began pulling at the Americans, and that’s when all of the Plattsburgh flyers leaped onto the Turks. More Turkish guards rushed to their comrades’ assistance — and that’s when the Ukrainian flyers rushed the podium. It was unclear exactly what they were doing, but they generally were trying to keep the guards’ M-16 rifles from going off in anyone’s face and trying to help Rebecca Furness up off the ramp and into their eager arms. The Ukrainians’ charge immediately prompted the Turkish flyers, who were clearly outnumbered but as enraged as wild dogs, to enter the melee. Officers were screaming orders. General Sivarek was shouting orders in Turkish, English, Russian, and Arabic, any language he could think of to make himself understood.
But the only thing that stopped the brawl was the sudden blare of a siren just outside the base operations building. It was echoed by several other sirens on the flight line and by others on the base proper. The Turkish, then the Ukrainian pilots quickly untangled themselves and began running for their planes. “Air raid!” Mace shouted, leaping to his feet as soon as the pile of men got off him. “It’s an air raid siren!”
“Jesus!” Lafferty exclaimed, shaking his head. “Get a crew to bring start carts over here, and another crew to get that reviewing stand away from the planes. Furness, tell your crews to taxi your planes toward those aircraft shelters over there. Move!”
The American flyers sprinted for their planes and got into the cockpit. Americans and Turks who had been wrestling with each other just thirty seconds earlier, were now side by side hauling heavy external power carts from next to the base operations building to the waiting Vampires, while Turkish guards were helping Daren Mace and a few Ukrainian pilots with broken planes drag the portable reviewing stand out of the way.