Scareforce (12 page)

But there was nothing usual about Davis-Monthan Air Force Base. Sprawling in the desert south of Tucson, DM was home to a
unique facility. The facility was known by official designations that changed with each philosophy upheaval that shook the
military. The current official moniker was the Military Aircraft Storage and Disposition Center, but since its inception the
place had been known by everyone as the Boneyard.

When it came to airplanes, the services were like eccentric pack rats, seldom throwing anything away. For a time after World
War II, the gates of the Boneyard were opened to private investors. The stock of war birds was too great for even the military
to think of keeping and storing. But during the earliest rumblings of the police action in Vietnam, the gates were soundly
locked and no further aircraft were sold to the general public.

Sergeant Korta looked out over row after row of aircraft lined up within the confines of the huge storage lot. The dry desert
air was perfect for preserving the aging aircraft and thousands of them now lined the acres of the Boneyard. There were bombers,
tankers, fighters, trainers, and cargo craft. They included the biggest and smallest, the widest and fastest, and, in some
instances, the strangest military planes ever built.

Davey could see a disc-shaped radar that shadowed the back of a Navy radar plane like a giant saucer hovering for a landing.
Another one in the same row sported an antenna on the nose that looked like the plane had been run through with a rocket.

Finally he pulled himself away from the contemplation of the elephant graveyard and turned back to the cab of the tower. He
took a sip from his thick black coffee and frowned at the bitter taste. Tower coffee was rumored to be deadly to noncontrollers
and he was not about to disagree with legend.

He surveyed the other two members of his crew. As senior controller, Sergeant Korta didn’t belong to any specific crew. He
was responsible for the training and supervision of all controllers on the base. But he regularly took over different crews
to see how they worked together. He had to be dead certain that each and every controller under his supervision could do the
job. Air traffic control was one of the most demanding and difficult jobs imaginable. It required constant attention to detail
and the ability to think and act instantly. Controllers had to have a mountain of information at their fingertips. Like master
chess players, they had to be constantly aware of all the pieces under their control and to think several moves in advance.
It was like a game. But it was a very serious game. The controller had to always win. If he didn’t, people died.

Davey shook his head in silent amusement. At this late hour of the mid shift his “crack team” looked anything but impressive.
Buck Sergeant Silvers, the local controller, was demonstrating his prowess at trash can basketball with old copies of weather
reports. His able assistant, Airman Couch, was locked in rapt concentration, studying his microphone as it dangled suspended
from his limp wrist.

Oh well,
thought Sergeant Korta.
Time to shake up the troops.

“Sergeant Silvers.”

The young sergeant bolted upright as Korta’s voice rolled across the tower cab like thunder.

“I assume you have completed the traffic count log for the last three hours.”

“No… uh, yes… that is, I’m getting on it right away, Sergeant Korta,” the young man managed to stammer.

“Good, good. It’s gratifying to see such dedication in the younger members of the Air Force.” The senior sergeant turned his
gaze on the younger man.

“How about you, Airman Couch? Are you dedicated also?”

“Yes sir, I am sir!” He leapt from his chair and snapped to rigid attention.

“At ease, Airman. And please remember to call me sergeant. Sir is a term reserved for officers. I work for a living.”

Korta walked slowly up to the young man and smiled.

“Am I right in assuming that your dedication is directed to your studies? I wouldn’t want you to have any difficulties passing
your annuals.”

“Yes sir… I mean Sergeant… I’m really studying.”

To prove the point he grabbed a book from the console and planted his nose firmly between the pages. His look of concentration
was so intense that it looked painful.

“Great,” smiled the senior NCO. “But while you’re studying so hard, who’s going to control that aircraft on final?”

In perfect television sitcom fashion, Airman Couch whipped his head in a double take and dropped his book and microphone.

“I don’t know, Sarge. I didn’t get a handoff from anybody.” The young man stared in confusion at the landing lights glowing
to the north of the field. The crystal clear desert air, brightly lit by millions of stars, made estimating distances very
difficult. It was impossible to determine if the lights were only a mile away or more than ten.

“Okay, what do you intend to do in a situation like this, Airman Couch? You can help him out, Sergeant Silvers.” Davey felt
the tones of the master teacher slip into his speech.

“Call center and check for inbounds.”

“Call approach and check for traffic.”

The two responses were the ones Sergeant Korta was looking for but coming as they did on top of each other, they were almost
unintelligible.

“Good. You each get two points for the first correct answer. Now if you’d like to try for even more points, you might make
those calls sometime before our mystery guest decides that nobody’s home and goes away.”

Both young men leapt to the task. Suddenly the quiet tower was awakened by the sound of frantic communication.

Sergeant Korta regarded the progress of the landing lights. They seemed almost to hang in midair, suspended over the distant
lights of downtown Tucson. The desert air could play some strange tricks on the eye.

“Center doesn’t have a thing,” Sergeant Silvers was the first to report. “They sounded like they were mad like I woke them
up or something.”

“Probably did,” observed Davey Korta. “How about approach? They have anything?”

“No, Sergeant, they don’t have a single inbound.” Airman Couch shook his head emphatically. “All they’ve heard from in the
past hour is that guy from the aeroclub. He’s been pre-flighting that light plane for the past hour.”

Couch gestured to the old WW2 trainer that sat under a pool of light on the transient ramp in front of the tower. A munificent
Uncle Sam had donated the old trainer to the base flying club. It was still being used to train new flyers and, in spite of
its gas-guzzling propensity, it was a favorite of most of the instructors.

“Well, then, I guess what we have here is an honest to goodness ‘pop-up.’”

“Pop-ups” were pilots who didn’t bother to file flight plans but preferred to navigate from place to place by visual see-and-be-seen
rules. As more and more air traffic jammed the airspace over the United States, fewer areas were available for the visual
flyers. And military bases almost never got visual flight rules traffic. Almost all military flights required a flight plan
and clearance. Military commanders did not welcome drop-in guests.

“Great, what do I do with a pop-up?” asked the confused controller.

“I think trying to establish communication with him would be a great place to start, don’t you?”

“Oh… yeah… right.” The airman suddenly remembered the microphone lying on the console where he had dropped it.

He quickly flipped up several switches on the console and keyed the mike in his hand.

“Aircraft on final, runway one-two, Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, identify yourself.”

All three listened intently to the bank of speakers across the top of the console. They heard nothing but the light background
static that continually issued from one of the speakers.

“Try again,” the senior controller directed.

“Aircraft on final to runway one-two, how do you hear me?”

Again the query went unanswered.

“Hit him on guard,” directed Sergeant Korta. “I’ll call it in to approach.”

The airman threw the switch for 243.0, the national emergency frequency. His supervisor made a courtesy call to the Radar
Approach Control facility located in the basement of the building under the tower. Guard frequencies were constantly monitored
by all facilities and every time one in range was used, the controllers would be anxious to know why.

“Okay, Sarge, we’ll listen up and see if we can hear anything from your unknown. I thought the guy on local was kidding when
he called down. We haven’t had any traffic for a couple of hours now.”

The senior radar controller was friendly but somewhat dubious about the possibility of airplanes sneaking up on his sophisticated
radar array.

“Here goes.” The young airman keyed his mike.

“This is Davis-Monthan tower on guard. Aircraft on short… aircraft on final to runway one-two, please identify yourself.”

Once again three pairs of eyes stared at the lights glowing in the air above the northern desert. It was as if they expected
the lights themselves to talk.

“How far out is he, Sarge?” Sergeant Silvers spoke to his chief but continued to stare at the landing lights.

“Can’t tell,” Korta answered, also without turning from the window. “It’s hard to tell at night. And it’s hard to be sure
without a hint from radar.”

“Almost looks like he’s not moving.”

Sergeant Korta nodded, then realized how foolish it was to nod to a person who wasn’t looking at you.

As if in response, the lights suddenly seemed to brighten and enlarge, as if the mystery aircraft had moved closer.

“Looks like he’s on his way.” The apparent movement of the aircraft startled the senior sergeant into action.

“Couch, get the light gun. This guy may be radio out. Silvers, get on the horn to Center and see if they might have lost contact
with someone.”

The chief controller was gratified to see the two young men in action before he finished speaking. They might be young but
they were professionals.

The airman pulled the light gun down from the ceiling. The device looked like a short, cartoon version of a cannon. Couch
located the aircraft in the sights mounted on top of the ultra powerful signaling device.

“What do you want me to tell him?”

Korta thought for a moment. Several emergency signals were available to the controller. They were made up of three different-colored
lights and pilots were required to memorize the meaning of various combinations.

“Give him a steady green. We don’t know what his problem is so we might as well clear him to land. I’ll alert the sky cops.”

Landing on a military base was a complicated procedure. It required permission in writing from the ruling commander. Those
who failed to get the proper permission were invariably greeted by the military police’s finest, fully armed for any eventuality.

Even before he hung up the alerting phone, the red lights atop the blue-and-white police vehicles started flashing. They converged
on the main ramp in front of the tower so that they could go either way down the runways to greet the visitor.

“What’s the matter, did I forget to sign my flight plan again.”

Sergeant Korta grinned at the voice coming out of the central speaker.

“Lyle, is that you in that Texan?”

“Yep. Thought I’d take the old lady up for a little night instrument training. I know I’m rusty, but I didn’t think you’d
sic the cops on me.”

“Just wanted to make sure you aren’t late for work tomorrow.” Sergeant Korta recognized the voice of one of his senior controllers,
Master Sergeant Lyle Dennis.

“Seriously, Lyle, we could use another set of eyes down there. We’ve got an unannounced visitor on final to one-two. Let me
know if you see anything wrong with him.”

Korta turned back to his crew. It was comforting to know that another old head was keeping watch with him.

“What’s happening with junior?”

“I’ve been giving him a steady green, but I’m not getting anything back.” The young man pulled his head away from the light
gun and contemplated the light. “Shouldn’t we be seeing something more than a light at this distance. I can’t make out anything
about him.”

“We should,” Sergeant Korta agreed. “Must be a really bright landing light. Looks like he’s leveling out for a low approach.”

The ball of light slowed its downward motion as it continued forward toward the runway. It moved over the first runway lights.
Its own brilliance washed out the strobes at the runway end.

“Couch, keep giving him a light. Silvers, watch to see if he rocks his wings. Everybody look for marking or insignia.” Korta
gave everyone their orders without turning away from the light.

The bright light reached the concrete of the main runway and glided down the center line about fifty feet above it. Its altitude
never varied as it made an almost-leisurely low approach.

Korta watched in a detached kind of awe. There was not a sound from the tower cab and the silence was not broken by the visitor.
To controllers used to the roar of military jets, the silence was deafening.

Suddenly the aircraft veered from its path down the runway and angled toward the massed ranks of aircraft in the Boneyard.
It seemed to hang suspended over a column of Korean War—era fighters as if in contemplation of the silver jets. Then, just
as suddenly, it returned to its outbound course beyond the end of the runway.

“Did you see him rock his wings?” Sergeant Korta was the first to regain his voice. Rocking your wings at the tower was the
universal signal for radio out.

“What wings?” Sergeant Silvers stared in rapt attention at the rapidly dwindling light. “I didn’t even see an airplane, much
less wings. All I saw was that big damn light.”

Airman Couch nodded his head in mute agreement.

Davey shrugged.

“That’s what I saw too. But I thought I was just getting old. I wanted corroboration from you juvenile delinquents.”

Suddenly several speakers went off at once. The security police all wanted to know what was going on. The fire department,
always stationed near the runway, was asking what it was, too. And the speaker in the middle of the console squawked to life.