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-talkie 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 Foxtrot,” 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 signoff 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.
He walked back to his V-100 just as a large green M113 Armadillo combat vehicle pulled up beside his. The back door swung open and two armed soldiers jumped out and took defensive positions behind the ACV. Jacinto could see the roof turret swing in his direction, the huge twenty-millimeter Browning cannon and its coaxial 7.62-millimeter machine gun in the turret trained on the Stepvan behind him.
“Five Foxtrot, code two, report,” a voice blared through the Armadillo’s loudspeaker.
“Five Foxtrot, code victor ten victor, all secure,” Jacinto yelled back. The security crews had been given a code sequence and number for the shift. When challenged, the guard would respond with the proper code to advise the response crew that he was not under duress. If he had responded with anything else the snipers at the back of the truck and the gunner on top of the armored vehicle with his cannon and machine gun would kill anybody in sight.
But Jacinto answered correctly. The guards behind the Armadillo raised their rifles and slung them on their shoulders. Jacinto walked over to the truck.
“Pissing off the munitions maintenance troops again, eh, Rey?”
“I gotta do something to stay awake, Sarge. These guys have no sense of humor.”
“Yeah. You gotta hit the head or what?”
“Just let me refill my canteen and I’ll be okay.”
Jacinto went to the back of the Armadillo and hacked around with the two assault troops as he filled his canteen from the large water can and hooked it back onto his web belt. He gave the shift-supervisor NCO a snappy salute as the ACV drove away.
His blood flowing once again, Jacinto did a quick walkaround inspection of the hangar as the munitions maintenance troops punched in the number of the code lock on the hangar door opening mechanism. As the senior NCO went inside, the younger man hopped back into the Stepvan and pulled it around so that the rear was facing in toward the plane. Jacinto moved toward the front of the hangar so he could watch the rear of the truck and the driver. The young driver, obviously nervous around the flight line, finally got into position after a series of jerks and starts, maneuvering the missile trailer in beside the plane as close to the hangar wall as he could. Jacinto decided to help him out, and guided the driver in until the truck was ten feet from the nose of the plane and the trailer was just under the left wing-tip.