“The mandatory contraception or sterilization would take care of that question. Women must make a choice — flying in combat or children. Children may come before or after your flying assignment, but not during. Could a combat pilot afford to miss twelve to twenty-four months of training because of pregnancy and family leave?”
“No way,” Rebecca replied. “The unit would need to find a replacement, then find another slot for her when she returns. It would mean one extra crewmember for every woman in your unit.”
“Which would not be acceptable in this day and age of cost-cutting,” the Senator said.
“This is getting pretty complicated.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Senator Furness said. “The public thinks it is an easy call — simply let women do everything men can do.”
“It seems to me that if a woman can pass the same qualification standards that exist right now in those other specialties, she should be allowed to serve,” Rebecca said. “But don’t exclude women just because they’re women — exclude them because they’re not right for the job.”
Senator Furness looked off for a moment, lost in thought once again; then: “Now I have a serious topic for discussion, Rebecca, and it has to do with you. Tell me about the morning of January 17, 1991, Rebecca.”
Rebecca opened her mouth to say something, then closed it in surprise. “I know it’s classified, Rebecca,” the Senator added. He opened a drawer, showed her a red-covered folder with Top Secret/NOFORN marked on it, flipped it open to a page marked by a paper clip, and put his finger on a specific paragraph. It was a short profile on one Captain Rebecca Cynthia Furness, U.S. Air Force, situated within the text of a detailed report on the incident with the FB-111 bomber over Iraq during Desert Storm. “I know their side of the story. Tell me yours.”
She did, in short descriptive sentences and making no apologies. After another short pause she asked, “Is that the reason why I can’t get a job? Why no Reserve or Guard unit will hire me?”
“Partly so,” Senator Furness said. “But it is also one of the most stirring stories I’ve heard about the Gulf War. It is the story of a true combat hero. Had you not done what you did that morning, the entire complexion of the war could have changed in a matter of hours. The Coalition could have lost the war, and Saudi Arabia and Israel could be in the hands of the Iraqis right now.”
“I don’t understand. Why? What was that FB-111 doing?” And then she stopped. She suddenly understood.
“I can’t get into it with you, Rebecca,” Senator Furness said uneasily. “Most commanders below four-star rank don’t know the particulars either, so they just assume you screwed up very badly and they don’t want to have you in their organization, period. I saw this happening, but I could do nothing to help you — until now.
“I’m going to see how badly they want women in combat, Rebecca. I’m going to use you as a guinea pig. If you want the challenge, if you think you can stand the heat, I’m going to do it.”
“Do what?”
“Rebecca, I’m going to make you the first woman combat pilot in the United States Air Force,” Senator Furness said proudly. “Not only that, but I’m going to put you in command of a hot new weapon system, the RF-111 strike/reconnaissance plane, at Plattsburgh Air Force Base. It’ll be a Reserve assignment, and it won’t be a brand-new F-15E or F-22 fighter, but you will be the first American woman to fly in combat. How does that sound?”
Well, it had sounded great, of course. The Women in Combat law was passed, allowing women to apply and compete for all combat specialties, in all branches of service. Women could even compete for elite combat units, such as the Navy SEALS or Army Special Forces, although it was acknowledged by all that few if any women could hope to pass the rigorous physical requirements of those jobs.
Like the Mercury astronauts in the sixties, the first women combat soldiers in each branch of service were chosen, and they were put on display for the whole world to see, one from each of the Air Force, Army, Navy, and Marine Corps. Not all were pilots, and not all services were anxious to have women combat crewmembers, which reflected in their initial assignments. Rebecca Furness got the best of the lot as aircraft commander of a new Reserve RF-111; the Marine Corps woman pilot got a CH-53 Super Sea Stallion transport helicopter, operating in a combat training battalion at Twentynine Palms Marine Corps Depot in California; the Navy copilot received a Navy Reserve P-3 Orion submarine chaser based in Brunswick, Maine; and the woman Army warrant officer, the first noncommissioned female crewmember in the United States, became a crew chief/gunner in a Washington Air National Guard AH-IT Super Cobra gunship. Their training progress was given extensive media coverage — even down to photographers and news crews waiting outside the clinic to interview Rebecca after her Norplant contraceptives had been inserted.
Despite life in a media fishbowl, Furness scored near the top of her RF-111 Fighter Lead-in class in almost every aspect — bombing, gunnery, precision course control, and emergency procedures — and scored impressively well in physical training tests. Her arrival at Plattsburgh Air Force Base coincided with the standup ceremonies for the new 394th Air Battle Wing (AF Res), the first Reserve composite combat air wing, and the dedication of the new RF-111, nicknamed the Vampire.
Nearly a thousand women were now flying combat aircraft in the Air Force, and almost every month brought news stories of yet another traditional male-dominated job being taken by a woman. Although it was very routine work for her now, Rebecca Furness still enjoyed a bit of celebrity status because of her rapid rise in authority within the unit.
She became a flight commander just a few months ago, and because of her rank and skill, she was in line to become “A” Flight commander and operations officer in another year and then compete for an Air Command and Staff College slot. Her goaclass="underline" to be squadron commander within five years, go to Air War College, and to become bomber/recce group commander within ten years.
And she was determined to do it.
THIRTEEN
“In summary, the situation in Europe has gotten much worse,” Major Thomas Pierce, the 394th Air Battle Wing chief of intelligence said to the dozen persons seated before him in the tiny wing command post at Plattsburgh Air Force Base. “As I stated in my intelligence summary sheet, the Pentagon feels a state of war definitely exists between Russia, the Ukraine, Moldova, and Romania over the Dniester Republic, especially given the unpredictability — and presumed unstable mental state — of Russian President Velichko. Another air invasion can be expected at any time. What effect this will have on continental U.S. units, particularly ours, is hard to guess, knowing the current administration’s unwillingness to commit to combat. However, we should expect some action fairly soon. Any more questions?” There were none, so Pierce, a somewhat nerdy but studious forty-year-old, took his seat.
Brigadier General Martin Cole, the old war-horse commander of the 394th Air Battle Wing, was silent for a long moment after Pierce sat down. The atmosphere in the tiny room next to the Wing communications center was quiet and reserved, yet charged with dreaded electricity.
Cole was a twenty-six-year veteran of the United States Air Force and the Air Force Reserve, after serving in a wide variety of positions from duty officer of a radar post in the Aleutians to assistant to the Chief of Staff of the Air Force, and this was his first Reserve combat command. After a year on the job, he was faced with one of the biggest challenges of his long career. He was going on fifty years, and his black hair was thinning, so he kept it cut in a flattop.