Scareforce (19 page)

Such places in the Air Force are never referred to as bars or saloons. Never anything so crass. They are dubbed “clubs” and
are distinguished from bars and saloons primarily by their name.

A club on a pilot-training base can be a dangerous place for the uninitiated. It’s hard for an outsider to understand how
a group of people can get so wound up trying to wind down. Another danger in these places is the preponderance of hand flying
going on. A pilot can get so caught up using both hands to demonstrate that impossible feat he just performed in his air machine,
that he becomes a danger to himself and to innocent bystanders.

Suffice it to say that pilots never tire of trying to describe that undescribable experience of controlling a mechanical device
through the air. Every club on every pilot-training base has a sign that says “Airplane Spoken Here.”

“Oh yeah he was around the club all the time. At first it gave me the shakes something fierce. After a while I sort of got
used to it. Sort of.

We first noticed it when the bell would ring. We had this bell at the end of the bar. If a student walked in wearing his hat
or did something else he wasn’t supposed to do, like forget his manners, one of his friends would ring the bell. Then the
perpetrator would have to buy a round for the whole bar, whoever was there at the time. As soon as the bell went off, me or
one of the other bartenders would make a quick count of the room to see how bad the poor fool would get nicked. We made it
a rule that we only served beer on the bell. Some of those studs screwed up so often that anything else would have broke ’em.

Well, every time we had a bell round on a Wednesday night we’d end up with one too many beers. Not that somebody wouldn’t
volunteer to drink the extra. But we didn’t want to charge the guy for any more than he should have to pay. It happened so
regular that finally we started automatically subtracting one beer. But only on Wednesdays. We said to remember to subtract
one beer for the ghost. Nobody complained.

That wasn’t bad. Nobody actually saw the ghost or knew they saw the ghost anyway. But two or three times when we were closing
up, one of the barmaids would see him. They didn’t know who it was at first. One girl came up to me and said, I thought you
threw out all the officers. There’s one sitting at the corner of the bar nursing a drink.’

So, I went in to tell him we were closed. Wasn’t anybody there. I looked all over, really searched the place, thinking he
might have headed for the john and passed out or something. After searching the joint for the third Wednesday in a row I gave
up. I figured out who he was, but I didn’t tell the girls. Didn’t want to scare them.

But I did ask them what he looked like. They all agreed that he looked like any normal second lieutenant student pilot. But
they said he looked like a student pilot who just pinked a ride and was worried about making it through the program.

Wonder if any of those guys ever noticed when he joined them on Wednesday night. They were usually so jazzed up that even
if they did know they were talking to a ghost, they probably would have just gone right on hand flying at Mach one.”

Williams Air Force Base is closed now, the drastic need for military pilots reduced by the demise of the cold war. The runways
that were so busy and so crucial to the activities of the base are just silent strips of useless concrete.

The pilots who learned their trade at Willy are spread throughout the world flying fighters and tankers and bombers and yes,
airliners, with a consummate skill learned from the best of aviation classrooms.

But on a cold, dark desert night if you listen carefully you can just make out the whine of the power cart and the roar of
twin jet engines. You might catch a glimpse of red and green wingtip lights as a white shape soars from the deserted field.
He’s up there trying again. Maybe this time he can get it right. Maybe this time he’ll demonstrate his mastery of the air.

Maybe this time he’ll earn his wings.

I
WAS proud of my uniform. Still am. I’ve been to places where civilians felt the same way I did about wearing the uniform.
And I’ve been places where people hated me because I was inside the uniform. I’ve even been to places where just wearing the
uniform was dangerous. But I’ve been to only one place where I’ll never wear a uniform or carry a weapon again.

“Son of a bitch!”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It won’t run.”

“Great. Wonderful. You just spent twenty minutes under the hood of this beast and all you can tell me is that it won’t run?
I know it won’t run. That’s why I called you in the first place. I’m stuck here in the middle of wherever this is with a truck
full of pissed-off sky cops and the ‘expert’ from the motor pool tells me that the problem is that the truck won’t run. Sarge,
are you sure you were never an officer?“

The burly sergeant slid out from under the hood of the diesel vehicle and regarded the questioner with a sneer in his eyes.

“Keep your insults to yourself, Jensen. What I’m trying to tell you is that for the last twenty-two minutes I have gone over
every system that makes this piece of crap a truck. I have checked every nook and cranny of this United States Air Force,
one-each vehicle, type truck, and everything checks out according to book and checklist. And I have come to the considered
conclusion based on many years of experience and skill. There is only one thing wrong with this truck.”

“And what is that?”

“It… won’t… run.”

“Whatdaya mean…”

“What I mean is,” the master mechanic interrupted the flustered driver. “What I mean is that the only thing wrong is it won’t
run. Everything else is fine. It should run. According to the laws of physics, mechanics, and sophisticated engineering, that
engine should be purring along at two hundred decibels. I can’t find a thing wrong.”

“Maybe you didn’t look hard enough. Maybe you missed something.”

“Missed what?” The large NCO wiped the grease from his hands in a manner that indicated his disdain.

“I don’t know… the carburetor or the belts… or that other gizmo, that what’s-it.”

“Look, Jensen, trust me. I didn’t miss anything. I didn’t miss the carburetor, or the wiring, or even the what’s-it. I didn’t
miss it now and I didn’t miss it the last two times we hauled this beast to the shop. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“There’s got to be something. And it was only one other time. There’s just got to be something wrong. I don’t know engines
too well but I know that they don’t just stop in the middle of the street in some deserted little pissant town for no reason.”

“Well, you’re right about one thing, Jensen.”

“Yeah, I knew I was right.”

The huge sergeant pulled the stub of a black cigar from his mouth and leaned his face in close to the other man.

“You’re right that you don’t know shit about engines. And what do you mean one time. I dragged your ass back to the base at
least twice.”

“Yeah, yeah, twice.” The nervous driver backed away from the mechanic.

“But only one other time with this truck. The first time was another truck.”

Sergeant Washington stopped. He backed away from Jensen and crossed his arms over his massive chest. He cocked his head to
the right and regarded the driver with new interest. It was like he was taking the smaller man seriously for the first time.

“Are you sure it was another truck?”

“Yeah, yeah, another truck. This is five-zero. The first time it was five-eight. Check your own logbooks if you don’t believe
me. But I remember distinctly that it was five-eight the first time. We don’t always get to drive the same truck, ya know.”

The big mechanic said nothing but continued to stare at the driver. The intensity of his contemplation of the smaller man
had an immediate effect.

“I ain’t shittin’ ya, Sarge. It was another truck.”

Washington started. It was as if he suddenly became aware of the effect he was having on the driver.

“Don’t worry, Jensen. I believe you. It was two different trucks I hauled out of the wilderness.”

He turned and walked a short distance from the other man toward the back of the diesel truck.

“But what does that mean?”

“What do you mean what?” Jensen was confused by the question.

“What I mean is what is going on? Have I got the start of an epidemic? Are the trucks getting sick or something? I mean I
just can’t keep hauling in perfectly good trucks. Somebody’s going to get a little suspicious. And before you know it I’ll
have a bunch of ‘zeros’ looking over my shoulder and giving me advice.”

Both men grimaced at the thought of a lot of help from zeros, or officers, as the Air Force preferred to designate them.

“Well, I won’t find out anything standing here in the middle of this beautiful village.” His inflection turned the description
of their location into surgical sarcasm.

“I guess I’ll get on the horn and call the Hook.”

“After you make your call, would you mind briefing the troops. I think they’re getting tired of hearing bad news from me.
And they all got guns.”

The big sergeant nodded his head as he walked back to his radio-equipped vehicle to call for the wrecker.

“Motor pool dispatch, this is Charlie One.”

“Charlie One, this is dispatch. Go ahead.”

The speaker mounted under the dash of the blue pickup crackled to life almost before Washington released the button on his
microphone.

“Dispatch, see if you can get Hook up on this freq. I got a job for him.”

“I’m here, Sarge. Your wish is my command.” The response was wrapped in a higher-pitched carrier wave, indicating a different
radio.

“That you, Hook?”

“You got me, Sergeant Washington. Whatcha got?”

“I got a sick troop truck on its way back from Lion Nine. Going to need a drag back to the base. And don’t doddle getting
out here. It’s full of unhappy Sky Cops.”

“Ten-four, Sarge. I’m on my way. Usual place?”

“I don’t know what you mean by the usual place, but we’re stuck in the middle of the booming metropolis of…”

Washington released the pressure on the mike button and glanced around, looking for a sign to tell him where he was.

“Don’t tell me. Let me guess. I’ll bet you’re on the main drag of the town of Targa.”

“I guess that’s what they call this burg. But how did you know?”

“I’m always picking up dead vehicles from that place. Usually on their way to or from Lion Nine.”

Washington stared at the radio for a minute, at a loss for words. Finally he keyed the mike.

“Just get your mass out here, Hook. Don’t mess around.”

“Ten-four, Sarge. I’m on my way. Out.”

Washington clipped the mike into its holder and walked slowly back to the disabled diesel. He was trying to make some sense
of the information that Hook had casually passed to him. He was determined to check a whole bunch of repair records as soon
as he got back to the shop. Something was going on that he didn’t understand. And that was a rare occurrence for Senior Master
Sergeant Damien T. Washington. When it came to anything mechanical, there were no secrets. It was a matter of physical law.
There was a reason for everything an engine did. All it took was a decent knowledge of the way things worked and enough time
and any problem could be solved.

Washington thought of several ways to attack the problems. That’s all they were: problems. Not mysteries—problems. He was
thinking so hard that he walked past the rear end of the truck and almost got to the cab before he remembered. He had promised
Jensen he would talk to the passengers. He reversed course and headed for the back door of the vehicle. He wasn’t looking
forward to explaining mechanical difficulties to a bunch of cops anxious to get out of the field.

The canvas flap that formed the back door of the converted cargo bed was pinned up to allow air circulation in the cramped
quarters. Washington hauled himself up over the tailgate and dropped into the isle of the crowded compartment. The first thing
that hit him was the silence.

When civilians think of the military, they usually envision camouflage-suited warriors armed to the teeth with the latest
automatic instruments of death and destruction. But the steely-eyed killer is hard to find in the modern Air Force. The last
bastion of the rugged G1 in the Air Force is probably the Security Police department. Security Police, or Sky Cops as they
are known by their fellow airmen, are assigned the task of guarding the most dangerous and advanced weapons systems in the
military. They are trained in all the arts of deadly warfare and are the most disciplined bunch in the Air Force. Anyone attempting
to enter a facility guarded by Sky Cops can attest to their utter lack of a sense of humor.

Sergeant Washington stood between the ranks of combat-ready troops and attempted to gauge the emotion he was receiving from
all sides. It took him a while to get it. It took him even longer to believe. Washington stood in the midst of the toughest,
best-trained, best-equipped fighters the Air Force had to offer. And from every one of them he caught the unmistakable indication
of… fear. Washington was amazed. They sat in silence, staring straight ahead, radiating abject terror.

He cleared his throat. “Uh… who’s in charge here?”

Washington barely heard the reply. It sounded more like a growl than speech.

“What’s that?”

“I said when are we leaving?” the voice rumbled more distinctly. It still had the guttural quality of an animal sound.

“Are you in charge here?” Washington directed his question to where he thought the voice came from.

“No, I am,” a man next to the sergeant answered without looking up from the floor.

Washington stared at the young NCO for a minute. Finally he decided on the safest course of action.

“Sarge, why don’t you step outside with me and I’ll explain the situation to you.”

It was couched in the friendliest of terms, but it was an order none the less. Even so the young staff sergeant was obviously
reluctant to leave the safety of the truck.