by Bobby Akart
“Paint?” asked one of the scientists.
“Yes,” she replied. “Consider this. Even just painting the surface a different color on one half of the surface would change the thermal properties and eventually alter its orbit. We have the technology, more advanced than OSIRIS-REx, I might add, to send a spacecraft to intercept the asteroid in time to paint its surface. Then we let the Sun do the work for us.”
Another scientist came to her defense. “She might have a point here, and frankly, we missed an opportunity while OSIRIS-REx was on Bennu. As we all know, Bennu has a one in twenty-seven hundred chance of hitting our planet in 2135. Naturally, we’re not talking extinction level here, but the damage could be catastrophic wherever it makes contact. We should have given Bennu a coat of paint ten years ago.”
The female scientist was anxious to finish her thought before the panel got off onto other subjects. “The bottom line is this. The Sun pelts everything in our solar system with tiny particles that exert a little bit of pressure on every celestial body, from planets down to meteors. Obviously, these particles are of no consequence to Earth because our planet is massive, but for an object the size of an asteroid, which will be far more susceptible to the Sun’s radiation, it could alter the path just enough to avoid contact.”
The panel fell silent for a moment until a voice from the center of the audience grabbed everyone’s attention. “I applaud you all for searching for a solution and commend you for your outside-the-box thinking. All of your theories and studies apply to these asteroids of fairly large size. They’re not the ones we need to worry about. The ones we need to fear are those that aren’t tracked by NASA. The ones that are undiscovered. The ones that are too close for your paint or your slingshots or your lasers. You need the equivalent of a quick-reaction force, or one day you’ll find yourself face-to-face with a planet killer.”
Chapter 8
Tuesday, April 3
Gulf of Mexico
Off the shores of the Florida Panhandle
Gunner looked forward to his ride back to Eglin that morning. He’d received half-a-dozen phone messages from his superior officer’s aide alone, not to mention numerous calls from his psychologist’s office. The calls were pleasant at first, portending to understand the difficult day he had yesterday, but by evening, requests became demands for his presence. Nonetheless, despite the anticipated psychoanalyzing followed up by a trip to the woodshed for a proper beatdown by the base vice commander, Gunner was excited for a trip up the coast.
Walking down the dock that morning, just as the tide reached its highest point, he paused to take in the sunrise. The waters of St. George Sound were like glass, with barely a ripple of bait fish causing any type of movement. He imagined he could make the one-hundred-forty-mile trip in two hours without pushing his ride.
He untied the dock lines attached to his blue and white Donzi 41GT sport boat and slid into the bucket seat behind the console. He immediately brought the three Mercury Verado 400 engines to life, enjoying the roar of the supercharged outboards that produced a whopping twelve hundred horsepower. They could easily bring the forty-one-foot go-fast boat to a seventy-mile-per-hour cruising speed on the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
He eased through The Cut, the narrow pass separating Dog Island from St. George Island out of respect for the oystermen who were making their way out of Apalachicola Bay for the day. At speed, the Donzi had little drag, but it was enough to send the oyster boats into an early-morning, unwelcomed rocking.
Gunner got settled into the powerboat’s cockpit, which resembled a miniature version of the F/A XX he’d dumped in the Gulf two days prior. He wiggled his fingers before he gripped the throttle and forced it forward, causing the bow to raise slightly as the powerful engines began to turn the three propellers through the water. By the time he reached the lighthouse at the center of St. George Island, he’d planed out and settled in for a smooth trip up the coast to Eglin.
With the digital display registering seventy-five, Gunner did a quick check of the other instruments. He hadn’t been on the water in over two weeks. Between commitments related to the disastrous test flight and a mission he’d flown in Venezuela on behalf of the CIA, he’d been away from Dog Island more than he’d been home.
There were only a handful of pilots like Gunner in the Air Force. He’d followed in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps and joined the Air Force after college. Because of his pedigree and his advanced education, he was chosen as a candidate to the USAF Special Operations Forces, which fell under AFSOC—Air Force Special Operations Command.
With his father’s encouragement, he’d followed a career path with the Air Force that landed him in a special ops squadron. Initially assigned to the 4th Special Operations Squadron based at Hurlburt Field near Pensacola, Gunner trained on a variety of AC-130 aircraft—a Lockheed-designed C-130 cargo plane converted into a killing machine, a gunship complete with firing ports housing an array of cannons, howitzers, and Gatling guns.
Gunner proved himself and soon was recruited into the fighter jet training school before being assigned to Eglin to fly the next-generation F-35 Lightning stealth fighters.
War had changed considerably since Vietnam and even the two Gulf Wars. International politics and fear of escalation of hostilities inserted themselves into the decision-making process. To be sure, neither the Russians nor the Chinese nor the Americans were interested in World War III. However, all three nations had their own geopolitical agendas.
For the Chinese, it was to limit, if not completely eliminate, U.S. interference in the Far East.
For the Russians, it was to bring rogue nations like Iran, Venezuela, Cuba, and Syria under their wing and take advantage of the resources or strategic locations they offered.
The U.S. fought a never-ending battle to limit the influence of their rivals, while trying to appease their allies and pacify Americans who had become war-weary after the years of fighting in the Middle East.
Conventional warfare had taken a backseat to cyber warfare, but in some instances, good old-fashioned boots on the ground with appropriate air support was a necessity. In an age of proxy wars, typically Moscow took the position of one side, namely a dictator or communist regime, and Washington supported the opposite side, oftentimes unorganized rebels or those who were attempting to install democratic governments.
As a result, the number of disavowed combat missions was on the rise, and Gunner had become their go-to guy in many cases. Not only was he one of their best fighter pilots, but he could handle himself in covert operations on the ground as well.
He was looked upon by his superiors as calm, ready, and competent. Capable. Yet he had his flaws.
Hence, one of the reasons he found himself pulling up to the dock at The Bayview, Eglin’s equivalent of an officers’ club, was to see the resident shrink. Located on Choctawhatchee Bay, social occasions at The Bayview included high-level parties with members of Congress and the cabinet—holders of the purse strings.
As Gunner pulled into an available slip, two uniformed military police hustled to greet him. A young, pimple-faced airman arrived right behind them and hurriedly helped Gunner tie off his boat.
“Good morning, Major Fox,” the young man greeted him.
“Mornin’, um …” Gunner hesitated as he squinted through the sun to see the young man’s rank. “Sergeant.”
Gunner slipped off his Nautica jacket, revealing a pair of Levi’s jeans and an untucked white polo shirt. He stepped off the boat and pretended to hand the keys to one of the MPs, who stood at attention, ignoring the attempt.
“Are you guys not valets? Or am I under arrest?”
The two MPs ignored Gunner and awaited the sergeant’s response.
“Major, um, my apologies for the MPs. Colonel Tompkins is a little, shall I say, put out. He’s ordered me to greet you with an escort so that, um, you make it to all of your required appointments.”
The young man studied Gunner’s
attire and then added inquisitively, “Sir, you are aware that you’ll be meeting in the vice commander’s suite with Colonel Bradfield?”
“Yeah, so?” Gunner removed his Ray-Ban sunglasses and tucked them into the V-neck of his shirt.
“Yes, sir, adjacent to Brigadier General Dickson’s office?”
“Yeah, I remember where it is.”
The young man stammered as he continued. “Well, with all due respect, sir, um, I think they might have expected you to be in, well, at least your fatigues.”
“Well, I guess they’re out of luck,” said Gunner. “I suppose we should get going. Let’s not keep the doc waiting.”
The young sergeant scrambled to catch up as Gunner strutted up the ramp toward the MPs’ vehicle.
“We’re already an hour late, sir.”
“All the more reason to chop-chop, wouldn’t you agree?”
Chapter 9
Tuesday, April 3
Director of Psychiatry’s Office
Eglin Air Force Base
Gunner stared quietly out the rear passenger window as he was escorted by the base police to his meeting with Dr. Brian Dowling, the medical director of the Department of Psychiatry at Eglin. The day they retrieved Gunner from the Gulf, he had been medivacked to the 96th Medical Group Hospital for treatment.
The rough landing into the choppy waters didn’t result in any broken bones, but he did ingest a lot of salt water while he floated haplessly awaiting rescue. His flight suit had a tracking beacon, as did his parachute. Despite the technology, it took Eglin’s recovery team several hours to locate Gunner because he’d drifted so far east due to the stiff upper-level winds he’d endured during his descent from the troposphere.
Incredibly, he never blacked out during the entire ordeal, and as a result, he had been coherent when he was being examined in the small three-bed intensive care unit. This enabled him to speak briefly with Dr. Dowling, who cleared his release from the hospital under the condition that he travel to the base the next day. Of course, Gunner never showed up, drawing the ire of his superiors and Dr. Dowling.
Gunner entered the psychiatrist’s office, something he’d done dozens of times in the past few years. The two were very familiar with one another. Gunner, who had become closed off, was the epitome of a man of few words when he was in the presence of Dr. Dowling. He didn’t like to share his feelings. He didn’t want to talk about it. He had no interest in opening up or letting his walls down. He just wanted the hour-long session to be over so that he could go about his business and be left alone. Today, he expected his tortoise-in-a-shell approach wouldn’t be tolerated, so he prepared himself to share.
“Good morning, Major. Take a seat.” Dr. Dowling’s demeanor was standoffish. Gunner sensed the hostility immediately. His résumé was impressive and, frankly, exactly what Gunner needed, if he’d allow the man to do his job. The highly respected psychiatrist was a professor emeritus at Johns Hopkins and a past medical director of psychiatry at Walter Reed Medical Center. He’d been interviewed on television numerous times on the issue of post-traumatic stress.
He’d also conducted significant research on traumatic brain injuries, something applicable to Gunner due to the numerous concussions he’d suffered while in combat situations. Gunner once quipped that concussions were a way of life for someone who fell out of airplanes from time to time.
Gunner decided to take a different approach this morning, one that would confound and befuddle the good doctor, and quite possibly keep him from getting grounded. He decided to play Chatty Cathy.
“Good morning to you, Doc,” he began with a smile, glancing down at the desk as Dr. Dowling turned on his desktop tape recorder, a common practice during their sessions and one of the reasons Gunner didn’t talk about it. He took a seat across from the psychiatrist’s desk, and instead of crossing his arms in his customary closed-off position, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the man’s desk. “I feel a whole lot better than when I saw you in the ER.”
“I’m sure you do, Major,” Dr. Dowling responded dryly as he wrote some notes in a journal. Without looking up, he asked, “What happened to you yesterday?”
“Yeah, about that. Listen, you know they shot me up with painkillers, and when I got home, I turned all the ringers on the phones to mute so I could get some rest. It was a long trip back to Earth for me and I was worn out. The good news is I slept all day. I really apologize for missing my appointment.”
Dr. Dowling’s glasses rested on the end of his nose, but his eyes peered over the top. Gunner had assessed the doctor’s bullshit meter in the past and knew what he could get away with. Today he’d be pushing the boundaries of their relationship, but it was a game worth playing.
“Understandable, Major. Now, let’s talk about what happened.”
“Sure, let’s. Doc, I admit that I went a little bit off the reservation Sunday. It was purely a misunderstanding on my part.”
Gunner hesitated, as he wanted to be careful with his words. Dr. Dowling would most likely call the colonel as soon as his patient walked out the door and across the compound to the administration building. By the time he stepped into the colonel’s office, she’d have a complete rundown on Gunner’s story.
“Misunderstanding?” asked the doctor.
“Okay, let me be perfectly honest here,” Gunner lied as he leaned forward some more. “I don’t want to cast blame, but perhaps miscommunication is a better word for it. You know, the suits and pilots don’t always speak the same language. Certain words to them, obviously made in jest, might mean something entirely different to a fighter pilot.”
Gunner paused again and provided himself some kudos. He was pretty good at this Chatty Cathy game.
“For example?” asked Dr. Dowling, who’d suddenly assumed the role of the closed-off party in this tête-à-tête.
“Well, you see, Doc, the suits told me to push her. You know, see what she’s got. That sort of thing. Now, I applied that type of directive to what I know of real-life combat scenarios, one, in fact, that I’ve been personally involved in. So, as instructed, I drew upon my own experiences and I pushed the F/A XX into the same scenario.”
“A direct, vertical ascent into the stratosphere at Mach 3?”
“Yup.”
“And you consider that real-life?”
“The Chinese can do it. And they did, right off the coast of the Philippines. You see, Doc, I felt like the nice people at Boeing needed to know what their aircraft was, and was not, capable of. So I pushed her, just as instructed.”
Dr. Dowling leaned back in his chair and removed his glasses. He scowled at Gunner and slowly began to clap. “Bravo, Major! That was an incredible performance. Did they teach you that crap in SERE school at Fairchild?” The US Air Force version of SERE school—an acronym for survival, evasion, resistance, and escape—was conducted at Fairchild Air Force Base near Spokane, Washington.
Gunner’s face turned white as he was unable to keep up the façade. “No, seriously, Doc. That’s how it happened. It was all a misunderstanding. I just did what I thought they—”
“Major,” Dr. Dowling interrupted Gunner’s stammering, “why did you turn off your comms before you performed this stunt?”
Damn. Forgot about that.
“Well, I didn’t want to be distracted, you know, by a bunch of ground chatter. In a real-time sortie, you wouldn’t have a bunch of people yelling in your ears while you’re chasing a J-20 in the sky.”
Dr. Dowling allowed a smile and leaned forward to turn off the recording device. “Major, once in a while, this old psych doctor has a brain fart and forgets to turn on this machine. Today happens to be one of those days. Do we understand one another?”
Gunner craned his neck to confirm that the recording had ended. He made eye contact with Dr. Dowling and nodded. “Understood.”
“I like you, Gunner. You’re probably one of the best fighter pilots in the Air Force. You are also highly educated and very astute. But
we both know there are issues for you to overcome, and after all this time, today I intend to change the dynamic of our relationship.”
“What do you mean?”
“Gunner, I think you need a friend. Someone you can talk to besides your father or Sammy Hart, your bartender, or—”
“You know Sammy?”
Dr. Dowling reached into a desk drawer to his right and pulled out a three-inch-thick file. He plopped it in front of Gunner. It was marked classified and had his name and current deployment stamped on the front cover.
“That’s my file?”
“Yes, and you’ll see that I’ve had an opportunity to speak with your bartender and several others in the Apalachicola community. Naturally, nobody knew who I was or why I was asking about you, but all the notes of my encounters are contained in this file.”
“Why? Why would you go through all of that for me?”
Dr. Dowling took a deep breath and exhaled. He leaned back in his tufted leather chair and clasped his fingers together across his slightly protruding belly. “Gunner, you are a tremendous asset to the Air Force and our country. An asset, a human asset, that is worth saving and not discarding. I’ll be honest, there are many who wanted to push you into retirement. He can get a commercial airlines job, they said. Or, we’ll get him placed with a defense contractor where his expertise can help us down the road.”
“What?” Gunner was genuinely astonished and confused.
“Gunner, they thought you were done. Mentally unfit. Is that clear enough?”