Within an hour Jack was back in the squadron, where Morgan put him to work with a paintbrush. When Jack asked Morgan why he’d been assigned to Stonewood, the major said an old friend, Muddy Waters, told him there might be some action in the 45th that he’d like.
Morgan reminded Jack of an aging heavyweight prize-fighter, past his prime but still obviously in good condition as he shambled about the squadron, now and then shadow boxing.
Morgan suffered from a split reputation. As a young fighter pilot, only his ability as a pilot and his combat record kept him from being kicked out of the service. Later on he had been assigned as an instructor at the Fighter Weapons School at Nellis and became one of Waters’ protégés, following him to Bitburg, Germany. Under Waters, Morgan had settled down some and become one of the Air Force’s best weapons-and-tactics officers. He was an expert at “mud moving,” getting fighter aircraft through hostile defenses and over a target, accurately dropping bombs and then safely escaping to RTB, or return to base.
Late that afternoon, having checked in from leave in the States, Thunder came down from the admin office with the same handful of in-processing paperwork Jack had. “Looks like we’re seeing Mad Stanley together,” Thunder told him. “Should be interesting.” Jack was glad to see his backseater. He figured he’d need him on this flight.
Jack and Thunder presented themselves at Colonel Morris’ office on the dot for their scheduled interview. Their class A uniforms and shoes were immaculate, and Thunder had carefully trimmed his moustache back so as to be well within standards. After a few minutes wait Morris’ executive officer briefed them to report in a military manner and remain standing during the interview.
“Sounds like an inquisition,” Jack said. Thunder shrugged in resignation.
The exec rapped sharply on the colonel’s door, paused for a moment, then escorted them in.
Morris returned their salute and rocked back in his chair, rolling a pen between the fingers of both hands. He mentally dismissed Thunder with a passing glance and fixed on Jack. “Lieutenant Locke, your irresponsible flying got my wing kicked out of Egypt. I do not like that. They tell me you’re a good pilot. I doubt it, because you’re certainly not a good officer. However, I believe you deserve another chance and I am dropping charges and court-martial proceedings against you and returning you to flying status.” It was no act of generosity. The Judge Advocate had convinced Morris that Jack would be acquitted in any court-martial and the charges should be dropped.
Relief washed over Jack.
“I want you to understand one thing and understand it well,” Morris went on. “You have no second chances here. One slip and I’ll break you. Follow? Do you understand everything I’ve said?
“And while I am giving you another chance, Lieutenant Locke, I am holding both of you responsible for what I consider irresponsible flying at Alexandria South, which will be noted on your next effectiveness reports. I’m a generous fellow, so I’m giving you an opportunity to demonstrate how well you’ve gotten my message. To build good will and interaction with the community, I am creating my Friday afternoon public tours. You two will be in charge of the presentation on Operations. That’s all. Dismissed.”
The two officers saluted and left.
Thunder spoke up first. “Come on, we’re going to see Fairly. I’m no genius, but I know a nut case when he drives over me.”
Doc Landis was in Fairly’s office when they stomped up the stairs and Fairly motioned them to come in and find some seats.
“The Doc is here lining up flights in Big Ugly. Kind of unusual,” Fairly said, trying to lighten the somber mood of the two men, “he wants to meet all his flying requirements.” Air Force regulations required flight surgeons to “fly frequently and periodically” in their wing’s aircraft. As a flight surgeon assigned to a squadron, Landis had to know at first hand the environment and stresses his patients were experiencing. Not only was he to treat their physical ailments, but he was responsible for evaluating their mental well-being. After all, in a war he had to watch for combat fatigue, a sure killer in high-performance fighters.
“How did the interview go?” Fairly finally asked.
That man’s asshole is synced to his brain with a direct force-feed mechanism—”
Fairly interrupted. “Jack, we’ve got a guest.” The squadron commander did not want his officer to get in the habit of criticizing senior officers in front of others, even a medic.
“It’s okay,” Landis said. “Let him get it out.
The break was enough for Jack to regain control as he told them what had happened with Morris. Fairly sighed. Morris’ decision to downgrade their OERs would make future promotion for the two very tough.
“Jack,” Doc said, “it’s anybody’s guess what’s going on in Colonel Morris’ head, but I’d guess he’s trying to establish his control over the wing and his ego is getting involved. There’s some kind of feedback… the more control, the better his precious ego feels. He might well see you as a threat to his control.”
“Why me?”
Thunder picked it up. “Once you’re in Big Ugly and the gear is in the well, he doesn’t have any real control over you. He’s got to trust you up there and that’s one thing he’s afraid to do.”
“We’re talking about how ego and leadership get all mixed up. T. E. Lawrence wrote all about it,” Landis said.
“Who?”
Lawrence of Arabia. He ought to be required reading for every officer.”
“All this bullshit about egos and your pal Lawrence is great, but what do me and Thunder do right now?”
“Well, for one thing, don’t squawk identification,” Doc said. He was alluding to the IFF (Identification, Friend or Foe) radar transponder beacon that sent out a signal for ground-based radars to identify an aircraft.
“Where did you learn about the IFF?”
“I’m a student of the F-4,” Landis said. “I figured I’d better be if I was going to be any good at saving your ass, and mine.”
Sara decided she was going to have to push Anthony “Muddy” Waters off dead-center. She went into the bedroom, selected an old-fashioned nightgown with a high neckline and long sleeves and got ready for bed. After brushing out her hair she walked into the living room. leaving the bedroom light on, hoping it would silhouette her figure through the nightgown. Waters, watching her, stretched out his arm.
Sara sat down close and nestled against his shoulder. “Anthony, I’m an old-fashioned modern girl… ” She waited, hoping he understood.
He did. “Sara… there’s a hell of an age difference between us. Do you think—?”
“I think if I’m going to have an Anthony Jr. or an Antonia, I’d like to be halfway respectable about it.” She waited.
“Are you…?”
“No, but I want to get on with it.”
“What would you do if I said no?”
“Not be so respectable, I guess.” She was forcing herself to sound light but was close to tears.
He wasn’t about to protest too much. “Then like you say, let’s get on with it… ”
Anticipating the inevitable noise complaints, Colonel Morris mounted a public-relations campaign in the local community. The 45th had flown P-51 Mustangs out of England in World War II, and Morris built on that, claiming a long-standing tradition of service in the U.K. “Jet Noise — The Sound of Freedom” was printed on thousands of bumper stickers. The colonel invited newspaper and TV reporters to tour the base and made the Officers’ Club available to the “Friends of the Eighth” for their next banquet. The public tours on Friday afternoons were a hit and well attended. It was time to get to the real work…