“Those items are gone, Major,” Mace said. “I got the word this morning. They were loaded on a LogAir flight and departed about four hours ago — coincidentally, this was a few hours after the Russian air attack in the Ukraine. Everyone get the picture?” Mace could see his new staff member’s eyes widening in surprise — they were indeed getting the picture. “Nine pallets, eleven-point-seven-two tons, intermediate destination Langley Air Force Base, final destination is classified.”
“That’s crazy,” Harden said incredulously. “They can’t take prepack mobility items without coordinating with me!”
“They can and they did — I confirmed it with Resource Plans Division,” Mace said. “They were going to let us know just before the battle staff meeting. You people just lost half your prepackaged spares and tools, and you didn’t even know it. We’re behind the eight ball, people. You think you know it all, you think you got it wired, you think it’ll all go smoothly — and you’re all wrong.
“Now I know, and you know, that the commander is going to order us to generate eighteen bombers and twenty-two tankers in a few hours. Why are we sitting on our asses? Why aren’t my ramps plowed? Why aren’t we prepared to go to war around here? And how in the hell can you people think that everything is normal when the fucking Russians sent a full squadron of Bear bombers on an obvious cruise-missile launch run over the Ukraine just a few hours ago?
“For us, war begins right now, and I don’t just mean the Bravo exercise. I want six … no, I want eight planes in the shelters immediately, fueled and ready to upload, and from now on I want eight aircraft in those shelters at all times in four-hour generation status. Is that clear?”
“Eight planes on round-the-clock four-hour status?” Razzano asked wide-eyed, already calculating his work load with dread. Four-hour status meant that all of the weapons preload functions had been accomplished, the aircraft had been fueled and preflighted by AGS, and it was ready to upload weapons — no more than four hours from start to fully combat-ready. “Sir, it takes more manpower to get a plane up to weapon preload status than normal training status — keeping eight planes in weapons preload status will be a nightmare. We need to coordinate with security, get permission from Logistics and Mobility to service the shelters—”
“Gentlemen and ladies, whatever it takes, I want it done. Weapon preload status will be our normal aircraft status from now on,” Mace said, impatiently holding up a hand to silence Razzano. “I will not tolerate this arbitrary ‘training’ status on my airframes. The normal day-to-day status of all airframes in a combat unit such as ours is supposed to be category two, which is at least 50 percent of all aircraft in combat preload status. I see nothing in the regs or the wing ops plan that directs the MG of this wing to keep his planes in anything other than combat preload status, so that is what we will do.
“We have eight alert shelters on our flight line, and from now on I want all eight of them filled with bombers ready to upload weapons or photo pods. The same goes with our tankers — I want twelve planes, not just four, on strip alert status, fueled, preflighted — deiced and ready to fly in thirty minutes. Is that clear?”
Heads with surprised faces nodded all around the room.
“Next item,” Mace continued. “Squadron commanders, your place is on the flight line with your troops, not in the office with your feet up. I know you all have paperwork and administrative chores to do, but when you’re not working on squadron business I want you on the flight line or in the shops with your troops. They need to see the officer cadre, and you need to know what they need and where the bottlenecks are. You all have cellular phones, so start learning to work on the move with them. Is that clear?” He received murmured “Yes, sirs” from the squadron commanders.
“In order to make the previous directive work, I want division staffs to start taking over the routine daily functions of the squadrons,” Mace continued. “Security, compliance, safety, manuals, training, inprocessing — I want all that stuff handled by the division staff instead of each squadron having its own safety officer, newcomers officer, training officer, and so on. These units are spending too much valuable time on shuffling papers and not enough time fixing airplanes, and that will stop right now.” Now it was the squadron commanders’ turn to smile, and the division staff officers’ turn to look grumpy and displeased. Routine staff functions and additional duties not involving aircraft maintenance did eat up a lot of every airman’s time, and finally the squadrons were going to get some relief.
“That’s all I have right now, ladies and gents — we have airframes to generate. I’ll see you all in the field. Major Razzano, a word before you leave.”
When the door to Mace’s office was closed behind the departing squadron and division staff officers, Razzano crossed his arms on his chest and said, “Well, I think you got everybody’s attention now. What do you do for an encore?”
“We make it work, Tony,” Mace said, running a hand through his blond hair. “It’ll be a ball-buster, but it’s gotta be done. We’re going to do it until someone orders me to stop.” Mace paused for a moment, waiting for another challenge from Razzano; then, when all he got was a disapproving, skeptical glare, Mace asked, “Why didn’t they make you group commander, Tony?”
“Why ask me, sir?”
“I checked your records: you have more specialty experience than I do, and although you’re not a flyer, that’s never been a requirement for MG. Why aren’t you in command? I don’t see anything in your records that would have disqualified you.”
Razzano was obviously stung by the pointed question, and Mace could see the ire rising in his face: “Why aren’t you a wizzo anymore, sir?” Razzano asked, clearly agitated. “I heard you screwed the pooch back in the Sandbox. Is that why they stuck you in maintenance, sir?”
The question stung Mace a little, but it didn’t slow his response down. “You’re not privileged to hear that information, Major, but I can tell you this: yes, I had my eyes open and my brain in gear and I didn’t let anybody else tell me what was bullshit or the truth. Yeah, I got hammered for it, and yeah, I got stuck in maintenance over in Turkey. But when I got in maintenance, I kicked ass. Now I’m the MG for the only Vampire wing in the goddamned world, I still got my promotion, and I still got my wings.
“I know you, Tony. I got the same give-a-shit attitude as you,” Mace lectured. “The difference between you and me is that you go around saying, ‘I don’t give a shit,’ and it doesn’t get done, while I say, ‘I don’t give a shit,’ and I press on and do it anyway. Most people don’t care what you do, Major — they just want you to take charge, take responsibility, do something. That’s what I want to do.
“I know guys like you, too. You play golf with the brass, go boating together, go to each other’s picnics. You can stop me from doing the things I want to do. The question is, are you going to play ball with me or are we going to tangle?”
“You’re the MG, sir,” Razzano said, “but I’ve been running this shop now for four years. You want my help, we gotta work together.”
“You know how to put together an ACC readiness report?”
The question took Razzano by surprise. He hesitated, searched his memory, then replied, “No, sir, but I—”
“Lieutenant Porter!” Mace shouted through the door. A few seconds later, Porter opened the door and stood in the doorway. “Lieutenant, you know how to put together an ACC readiness report?”