Afterburners Read Free

a mission crew supervisor or as a senior mission specialist, depending on the duty. On the Hot Sheet for the next week was a mobility exercise. Chief Hancock’s handwritten note asked for me specifically. I scheduled a different mission crew supervisor for the mobex anyway. I’d just been away for 5 weeks. My wife wouldn’t understand why I had to go off again, especially when I was the one running scheduling.
        Then I got to thinking about the Washington brass and their small-minded view of Electronic Warfare. EW platforms were like stealth bombers. Bureaucrats recognized the value of planes that were invisible to radar but often couldn’t justify the expense. And while they might be willing to pay for stealth fighters, stealth bombers at 2 billion and change each seemed way over the top—even if it meant the U.S.A. could get first strike.
        I wasn’t about to let them win. Like the chief, I had something to prove to the Washington brass. I penciled myself back in as the MCS for the mobex. No matter what Katie said, it’d be easier explaining to her why I had to go away for two weeks than trying to explain to Chief Master Sergeant Hancock why I shouldn’t go.
        The old chief was married to his job and the military. He didn’t understand what it was like to be a newlywed; or if he did, his memories of those days some thirty years ago just weren’t as clear as they once were.
        “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” is what the chief would say, if he said anything at all. My usual response of “or indifferent” would get a chuckle but wouldn’t really be heard. The chief wanted the best crewers on critical missions and I was one of the best—fortunately or unfortunately.
        Ten hours later, I was home, sitting in front of an ever-filling screen, pounding away at the keyboard, waiting for my wife to come home. I had a box of manuscripts that I was consistently piling higher and higher. Tom Petty was playing on the radio, and I stopped pounding the keyboard briefly to jot down a few notes in my journal and sip at my beer, a Bischoff. Then I turned back to the computer screen.
        Katie came home from work at 19:30. We made supper, made love, talked about the away mission—in that order—and the order of the events is what pissed Katie off.
        It was a typical Wednesday, ending with Katie slamming the bedroom door in my face and my sleeping on the couch.
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
August 1990
     
     
     
    04:00 came way too early. I showered, ate, and was out of the house by 05:00. I had an 05:45 show, 3 hours of pre-brief, 9 hours of flight time, and 2 hours of post-brief to look forward to. It was a Thursday. This was going to be an average day as fly days go.
        Wednesday’s flight had been a No-Go, so today’s flight was a Gray Warrior—in-flight training for chemical warfare. I lugged my chemical protective gear out of the car, entered ops and went straight to Life Support. I dropped my gear next to the O2 station, then preflighted my oxygen mask and helmet.
        At 05:29, I touched my thumb to the scanner on the secure vault door outside the flight briefing room. I remembered to slap on my green badge as the door closed behind me with a dull thud and a click.
        Check-in went quick. I initialed the flight orders next to my typed name while looking over the info to make sure it was correct. Then I sat down for the short wait.
        By 05:45, the pilot, copilot, navigator, and engineer were present as were the eight mission crewers. The only one missing was the air maintenance technician. The AMT, Sergeant Martin “Crow” Endwick, was prone to being late; and true to form he showed up flashing his hang-loose sign three minutes later. In crew time, late is late, whether it’s seconds or minutes.
        “You got beer after wheels down,” I whispered into his ear, slapping him on the back. It was a crew dog rule: late to fly, first