“Buck, get back to the base pronto. We’ve got an alert.”
It was the duty officer from the squadron. “Ah, bullshit, give me a break,” Grant groaned, sitting up. He took a swig from the water glass that he had almost tipped reaching for the phone. The water didn’t relieve the sticky taste in his mouth. “I flew last night. Then the debrief took all morning. I got a cold that’s busting my head open.”
“This is a no-shitter, Buck. Code Sierra. I can’t say any more.”
The sudden click left Grant staring incredulously at the handset. Code Sierra? What the hell? He hung up and looked at the clock radio sitting next to the phone. A little after two thirty in the afternoon. At least he had got a few hours’ sleep. He eased his six-foot-three body out of bed and grabbed another Kleenex, throwing the used one on the floor amid a growing heap of pink and blue. Step two was a shuffle across the small bedroom and a stiff tug on the shade over the window. Bright sunlight poured through, bathing his aching body. Buck recoiled like a vampire caught by the rising sun.
“Crap,” he complained, “where did I put the damn aspirin?” The unsuccessful drug search was quickly abandoned for a better remedy, a strong cup of black coffee.
Grant could have been a recruiting-poster model for the US Air Force. Well built, handsome Nordic features, thick brown hair that lightened in the summer, hazel eyes that were greener than brown, and a wide, white-toothed grin that melted most women and commanding officers alike. His easygoing manner and soft drawl pegged him as a local Texas boy, but he originally hailed from the Midwest.
His small, studio apartment was in shambles. Dirty clothes were strewn the length of the L-shaped bedroom, and his open sliding-door closet revealed a tangled pile of messy laundry begging for attention. He had moved to the run-down apartment building when his beautiful, charming wife had abruptly walked out only six short months ago. Their lovely four-bedroom, two-story suburban home was on the market for a steal.
Buck had met his upscale future bride on a blind date his senior year at Penn State. She was a gorgeous business major from Pittsburgh who wanted to go into banking. They immediately fell in love. His six-year commitment to the US Air Force was conveniently overlooked. Frustrating separation, broken by intensely passionate weekends and holidays, solidified the storybook relationship. The culmination was a spectacular summer wedding at her parents’ huge Pennsylvania estate. Her prosperous investment-banker father provided an incredible spread, while Buck’s flying buddies provided the questionable entertainment.
His perfect mate never really adjusted to the transient military life, nor the role of an officer’s wife. A meaningful career was out of the question when traipsing all over the country after her man. One Texas winter morning, after five tumultuous years, she bailed, leaving a neatly typed three-page letter that spelled out Buck’s faults and transgressions in nauseating detail. He had got falling-down drunk, but the next morning, with his head resting in the toilet, he concluded that it was for the best. His first love was flying; he had always told her that. In retrospect, he didn’t blame her and held no grudge.
Twenty minutes later, Buck burst out the door dressed in a greenish-gray flight suit, polished black boots, and carrying an overnight bag. The Texas summer sky was deep crystal blue, and the gusting breeze felt like a foundry blast furnace against his exposed, tanned skin. He jogged down the stairs to his waiting pickup parked next to the curb, tossing the bag in the bed. It was an old, beat-up Ford that looked like it hadn’t been washed in months, which it hadn’t. An ugly gash on the left side commemorated the latest unidentified run-in.
“Must be a hundred today,” he grumbled, opening the truck door. He climbed in, engulfed by stifling heat. He danced in place as the blue vinyl seat burned his butt clear through the heavy flight suit. The steering wheel was so hot he had to use a dirty T-shirt from the floor to grip it.
“I’ve got to get one of those stupid-looking window shades,” he groused.
Most in the squadron complained about the hot, humid weather, but usually not Buck. After back-to-back tours in the Dakotas, he swore he never wanted to be cold again. And today’s intense heat certainly helped clear his sinuses. He pumped the accelerator, started the engine, and pulled off, leaving a cloud of blackish-gray smoke lingering by the curb.
His apartment complex was less than a mile from Interstate 20, and only five miles from Dyess Air Force Base, home of the Strategic Command’s 96th Bomb Wing. Within minutes, he was cruising down the interstate at seventy miles an hour, the wind whipping through the open windows, a slight smile on Buck’s handsome face. He felt like shit, but flying was flying.
Buckmeister, as his parents still called him, had let down the family by choosing an air-force career over their preference — following his older brother and father into law. Even as a child, he wanted to fly. Fun-filled hours were spent reading magazines and books, building models, and doing anything pertaining to aviation. Secret flying lessons started at sixteen and continued through high school. On the happy day he had gotten his pilot’s license, his mother had burst into tears. His father had been more understanding, certain, as fathers are, that his preoccupation would fade as his thoughts turned to college and girls. Opting for air-force ROTC at Penn State prompted a major rift, one that still haunted holiday get-togethers at the elder Grants’.
Buck’s was flying what he now considered the most demanding aircraft in the air-force inventory — the B-1B bomber. His initial preference had been fighters, hopefully F-16s, but somehow he lacked that special ingredient to be a fighter pilot. To the hotshot fighter jocks, it was a combination of coolness and confidence — not hesitating to press the outer edges of the envelope. To Buck, it was a mixture of cockiness and craziness — the word stupidity came to mind. His marks and flying skills would have secured him a seat in the next fighter class, but instead he selected the more sedate world of bombers, signing his young soul over to the stodgy Strategic Air Command. His nightmare was getting stuck in B-52Hs, those aging monsters that never seemed to die — most of them older than he or anyone else in STRATCOM for that matter. They were now relegated to a standoff attack role, carrying cruise missiles, both the older AGM-86B ALCM and the new AGM-129A Advanced Cruise Missile. But luck was with him, and he drew B-1Bs.
The stealthy, black batwing B-2A, whose production line had been terminated at a scant twenty aircraft, had been billed as the answer to everyone’s prayers. But despite its advertised superlative performance, Strategic Command still hadn’t figured out how to use it. Many felt the B-2As were too valuable and too few in numbers to risk. That left the ninety B-1Bs to carry the brunt of day-to-day operations.
Pulling up to the main gate at Dyess, Buck fumbled for his ID amid squealing brakes. The air-force gate guards were used to these clever maneuvers during major alerts and calmly waved him through, saluting politely as he passed. He ignored the posted twenty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit and the numerous stop signs between the gate and his squadron. In five minutes, he had parked next to the fence and bounded up the stairs to the squadron operations office on the second floor.
The cramped room overflowed with twice the usual number of officers and airmen; the noise level was deafening. The squadron executive officer was shouting into the phone with his finger in his other ear. He slammed the receiver down and shook his head.
“Stupid bastards,” he said out loud, “what do they expect me to do? Pull the fuel out of my ass?” He turned and spotted Buck. “There you are,” he yelled across the room, “what took you so long?”