Afterburners Read Free Page B

himself.
        “Guess not.” I replied.
        “Get on down to Life Support and fit a chemical mask. Then head over for mobility processing at the hangar across the lot.”
        “Real world?” I asked.
        “Real world. Mobex is just a prep; but you’ll need your shot records, tags, and your gear. Should be in your bag anyway, right?” Old Jimmie looked up at me and I sort of nodded.
        Just then, I noticed a brand-new bulletin board behind him with lists of names arranged by crews. My name was in position six on crew three. “Position 6?” I asked.
        “We need the best ops on 6 and 7. You’re it. Got it?”
        I nodded agreement, didn’t think much more of it at the time as I headed out the door posthaste.
        In a few minutes I was sucking filtered air through a real-world chemical mask while the life support technician fitted it up and showed me how to use it properly—like I didn’t already know how. But this one was different from the one I was used to; it wasn’t stamped: TRAINING USE ONLY. I’d never really cared before if the seals fit just right. I did then.
        By the time I got into the mobility processing line, it stretched all the way to the back of the hangar. Happy, Topper, Popcorn, Cowboy, and a few other crew dogs were also at the end of the line, mixed in with a large group of ground-support personnel. They had arrived a few minutes before me and under similar circumstances. We all would have preferred flying.
        It didn’t take long to get to the front of the line. We passed the time listening to Happy’s anecdotes. By now a number of crewers had piled into the line behind us. I saw Able and Tommy. You couldn’t miss them. Several others—who were all good friends—including Chris, PBJ, Mike and Captain Willie, were behind them.
        Able was spouting off as usual. “You believe this f’ing shit,” he was saying. Tommy wasn’t helping to calm him down but was cheering him on.
        All I heard of the remainder of their conversation was a string of f-words as I reached the front of the line. Personnel was first with emergency data cards. The cards covered whom to contact in case of emergency, next of kin, and what not. I had one typed. Then came the Security police with ID cards and dog tags. I got a new set made. Afterward the base legal team was there to make powers of attorney and wills. I didn’t think I’d need either of those, so I moved on to the Chaplain and Finance. Immunization was through a door and across a hall. I got four shots. Two in each arm.
        The mobex prep was a rather rude awakening; and about the time the fourth needle pushed into my arm, something I’d neglected to see the importance of clicked. I was on launch crew three and yet the official word was that our unit was still to remain in place. We would not be going to the Gulf, or so the buzz in the mobility line went.
        After the mobility exercises, two weeks passed quietly, yet that morning when I entered the ops building at 07:15 it was buzzing. A crowd had gathered around the DO’s office and there sitting in one of the chairs across from the chief was a man so tanned that I hardly recognized him. He looked like a sun-wrinkled prune. Lost weight, too, I could tell. One of our guys had come home. It was October 15th.
        He was being bombarded by a never-ending onslaught of questions. “How was Saudi?” “Did you get to Riyadh?” “How was the desert?” “What was it like?” “Was it hot?” “What does the situation look like?”
        He was a celebrity, our local expert. He’d been there; we hadn’t. Yet the questions were all about the same thing. We all wanted to hear someone say it—anyone besides the newscasters and the second-guessers. It being the only question no one asked, “Do you think there’ll be war?”
        I stood gawking for about fifteen minutes then went to work, business as