AMERICA ONE (16 page)

“Will you two please hear me out?” Maggie asked. They silently looked at her with worry. She had not been the same since she started that darn flying course. “I will be studying two fields at the Air Force Academy if they will allow me to. I wrote down the subjects I wanted to study, and they replied that it was possible. The subjects I have applied for are Computing and Computer Science, and Aerospace Engineering.”

This seemed to appease her parents somewhat. “And how much is this all going to cost us?” asked her mother regaining her composure. “You have already spent ten percent of our education savings.”

“Another ten percent for travel costs to Colorado, a car to get there—about another ten percent, and let’s say ten percent for books and school materials. $10,000 mother and I won’t need the rest,” Maggie replied, now knowing how to deal with her parents.

“Is that all for a Bachelor’s degree, Maggie? Don is she correct?” she asked her husband.

“If Maggie is correct dear, there could be enough left over for a Masters. Maggie, who is paying the rest?

“Our government,” she replied simply.

“A government funded education, hey? Now where was that when my parents had to put me through college?” he asked. Maggie wanted to reply sarcastically, but decided that silence was the best option.

They suddenly seemed pleased that she was pursuing a positive education, happily signed the papers, handed her the money a few days later, and helped her purchase her very own ride to Colorado.

They waved her off with as much enthusiasm as she had ever seen them exhibit.

That was over thirty-one years before she received the call that the base commander of Nellis wanted to see her.

She walked across the apron, leaving the C-5 crew with which she had just completed a round-trip supply run to Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany. She was wondering what the good-looking, but married, General Saunders had in store for her this time. He was only several years older than her, had left the Academy in Colorado before she got there, and she knew that good-looking generals like him were never single. Her days of finding a good general or above to have a family with, were long gone. Maggie, now a full colonel and still flying, couldn’t really marry below her rank, and she never really met any civilians.

As she walked across the large cement apron, she remembered her Academy days, and thought back to her early days there.

Maggie fondly remembered driving all alone from California to Colorado to be put through her rookie months of dirt, mud, crap, shouting and the general unpleasantness she, as a protected child, never knew existed. It was horrible at the time. She couldn’t believe that people treated others that way. No respect, no softness, and no peace and quiet to think.

But, as quickly as it began, boot camp ended. A couple of the people she had started with were not there anymore. Her mother had been right; this was certainly a man’s world. Less than one percent of the 1,000 recruits on the parade square that day, her last day in boot camp, were female.

In the early 80s, she had been lucky to be an Academy rookie at all; many of the squad sergeants took pleasure in screaming that at her during the first six weeks. It was thanks to the second letter from her flying instructor’s father, the senator, that she was actually accepted.

After the shock of this horrible new world, Maggie became tough and independent. Her female peers shared a dorm which was so squeaky clean that even her mother would have been impressed. She had learned to clean and scrub, and clean and scrub until her fingers hurt. She found the shouting and bad language of peculiar interest, often looking up the new words she had been called by the drill sergeant. It surprised her to find new names for parts of her body she never knew had names. Scientific words she knew, but a few of those often used four-letter words were totally new to her vocabulary.

Thanks to her parents, it didn’t take her long to allow the words to shoot over her head, and she learned that smiling back at a screaming drill sergeant sometimes worked, but never on the parade square. Her knowledge of the English language certainly was revisited, mostly with short, sharp words during her first weeks.

Maggie’s first chance to return home arrived, and she happily phoned home. A newly installed answering machine told her nobody was home. A rather silly message from her mother on the answering machine politely explained to the caller that the dwellers were out of town on a cruise, and then the machine stated that that the message section was full. So she stayed in camp for the whole of the first year.

Finally, civilization seemed to resume and she was allowed to attend the classes she had applied for. Unfortunately, computer science was a timing problem and without telling her parents, she quickly dropped it for other courses, like gliding and computerized aviation flight—smaller and far more exciting mini-courses—while she worked hard on the aerospace engineering she refused to let go of.

She excelled at what she did and now only had two interests, flying and engineering, which she managed to get her degree in.

During her second year she went home twice before she began to make excuses for why she couldn’t visit as often. Maggie had changed, but her parents certainly had not.

The base commander, General Saunders, returned her salute, and she was offered a seat and a cup of coffee. His phone rang and he answered it. The ringing reminded her of her last year at the Academy.

It was the end of her time in Colorado, and she was about to be transferred to Andrews Air Force Base in Washington, D.C.

As a new second lieutenant she had been one of the top students during her time there and was offered whatever type of transport aircraft she wanted to learn to fly. Female pilots weren’t allowed to fly fighters, or bombers in the Air Force. The country was in between wars—Vietnam and the first Gulf war—and her choices were transport or flight refueling.

Lieutenant Sinclair decided on transport and was to be based at Andrews, but would learn her transport aircraft flying career over several bases.

For the next several years, she learned on many types of aircraft, first learning to fly an old C-47. After propeller aircraft, she learned to fly jets and, ten years after her release from the Academy, newly promoted Captain Sinclair had her first training flight in a C-5 Galaxy.

She enjoyed flying most of the aircraft, but she learned that the bigger the aircraft, the more stable it flew; the C-5 was so big, and so powerful that in her first few years flying it as a co-pilot, she often headed into the cargo section to make her mind believe that she, little Maggie Sinclair, was hauling 250 tons of cargo around the world, in an aircraft as easy to fly as her first few days with her instructor in the Cessna.

Her degree in aerospace engineering was helpful in her promotions, and when she not flying, Maggie headed the aircraft maintenance “think tank” group on flight failures at her current base, Travis Air Force base in Fairfield, California.

In the mid-90s, Major Maggie Sinclair was ordered to help out on a C-5 experimental aircraft, where a large loading ramp had replaced the two clam-like opening doors the C-5s usually had for rear loading and unloading.

In the late-1980s, NASA had two C-5A Galaxies modified to accommodate satellite and space station components. In each aircraft, the troop compartment, located in the aft upper deck, had been removed and the aft cargo-door complex modified to increase the dimensions of the cargo compartment's aft loading area. During 1990, a third C-5 was redesigned with larger rear doors to accommodate even bigger space station components, but the designs were flawed and this poor aircraft was now called “The
Dead Chicken
”. This C-5 was the ugliest chicken she had ever seen. Its butt was walled with an oversized cargo ramp-door, much like a draw bridge on an English castle, and for some reason it wouldn’t seal and pressurize the cargo compartment during flight.

For weeks she pondered the problem. Every time the aircraft flew up to higher altitudes, the pressurized cargo compartment de-pressurized and this meant that on normal transport operations, troops could not be carried, only vehicles and supplies which could stand freezing conditions.

Her team tried everything: padding the doors, working out a system of bolt-tightening the doors, much like in a naval vessel, and even adding more powerful engines. One day she had to be co-pilot with a test pilot who she didn’t like. He was an ass of a man, but a pilot she respected for his abilities who explained to her that the initial design of the body of the aircraft caused considerable wing disturbance at the rear of the aircraft, enough to suck air out. He understood that with the current sized door, nothing would enable them to fix the problem, and the aircraft couldn’t be returned to its original condition without replacing the whole rear half of the aircraft.

Over the years, the
Dead Chicken
was forgotten by Maggie, and life went on as normal. Even the detestable test pilot was forgotten, and soon after her last flight in the ungainly aircraft, she moved on to Edwards Air Force Base.

Maggie heard the general put the receiver down and brought herself back to the present.

“Colonel Sinclair, we have a situation north of us. Ever hear of the
Dead Chicken
, a test aircraft that started at Travis, and I think ended up as scrap at Dover Air Force Base?”

“Funny, sir, I was just thinking about her. I flew over a hundred hours in her, and we never could get that aircraft right.”

“Well, she has been loaned to a small, private space company just north of Creech Air Force Base owned by a civilian named Ryan Richmond. I’ve heard him lecture a few times. He is in this private space race, and not doing very well, I was told by the last guy we sent up there to fly the C-5 for him. I must admit I was surprised that they sent this desk guy, until I was told by Dover’s base commander that he was entrusted to keep them abreast of their advancements. I found that remark rather unfair. Well, they sent him back, and we must supply a new pilot. They seem to be happy with the co-pilot, a captain the Air Force who was sent there at the same time, but we want you to take the place of the man they sent back, and to keep the Dover base commander informed of their progress.”

“Is their progress of so much interest to the Air Force?” asked the colonel.

“Not really, except that the darn president signed off on an amount of plutonium for their energy uses in space, and Congress and the Pentagon want weekly updates on the safety of this non-weapons grade material.”

“Is that all, sir?”

“I think so, plus the Air Force can’t understand why he has such a big program. We have seen hundreds of tractor-trailers enter his private airfield on satellite, far more equipment than he should actually have need for. NASA and our own space projects have been subject to budget cuts by Washington again, and I am secretly hoping that this Richmond guy, and the billions he is investing into his project can give us and a couple of old friends of mine at NASA a new program for space travel we can get involved in. His idea is to eject a space shuttle from the rear cargo doors of this failed C-5 frame and send it into space. One of the other teams, the British team, is also working on this type of launch vehicle, and with what the returned pilot reported, this Richmond fella is nothing but hot air.”

“Sounds like fun. When do I leave?” Maggie asked.

“Tomorrow, I’ve got a temporary replacement to take over from you; Colonel Jeff Smith should be waiting outside. This afternoon fill him in on your workload for the next couple of months. By the way, they don’t allow us to fly in, even though they have a wide 10,000 foot newly-resurfaced runway; so, get yourself to Creech, just south of them, and you will be picked up by somebody. I have other ideas about Ryan Richmond compared to others in the Air Force. I actually met the man several years ago; he is extremely clever, and I think one of the best minds in this country right now. Why the government and even members of the Air Force are so interested in his project I don’t know, but report only to me, and I’ll send whatever I think is necessary over to Dover.”

Maggie nodded, saluted left the office, introduced herself to the colonel waiting for her outside the office, and headed out to transfer her workload.

A complete flight crew.

It was Tuesday evening, their second night on base and with a couple of hours of free time. As both men had not had a drink for over twenty-four hours, Jonesy suggested to VIN that they try the bar on the main street next to the cinema. It was totally empty and a bartender was cleaning glasses as they sat down at the bar.

“Two cold beers,” asked Jonesy and the man looked at him as if he was crazy.

“It’s Tuesday,” he replied drying a glass with a cloth.

“So? I don’t care what day it is, two cold beers. I can see them in there, in that coke refrigerator behind you. The same type of beers you guys cleaned out of our car a couple of days ago,” Jonesy added.

“Oh! You must be the two new guys everybody is talking about, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The gossip seems pretty accurate. I’ll let you on little secret, guys. Alcohol is only permitted on Saturday afternoons and evenings from 4:00 pm to midnight. Most guys who come in and drink at exactly four Saturday afternoon have been waiting outside for an hour, and are totally drunk by six. If you arrive a little later, most of the drunks, especially the Russians and Germans, have already been carted home by their wives, husbands, or the security guards if they are single. I assume drinking once a week weakens these foreigners’ alcohol intake. They sure can’t handle it.”

“You mean we can’t get a drink?” VIN asked as Jonesy seemed to be wrestling with the information mentally.

“Which language do you want me to explain it in? Russian, German, Chinese or Southern? No alcoholic drinks at the bar! Only milkshakes or sodas, boys, and the boss has given me authority to shoot anybody who tries to break the law. Is that clear enough English for you?”

“And they employ you just to tell us that we can’t purchase alcohol? Damn, I want your job!” replied Jonesy.