“That about does it today. Offload complete,” Angelo announced, reviewing his checklists in preparation to disconnect his probe.
“Thanks, BISON. See you next time,” the F-22 pilot said as she slid out of position.
Internal to the KC-135, Angelo got back on the intercom.
“We’re disconnected. She’s backing out… dropping down. Going to the right side,” he told the rest of his crew.
The four F-22s were all full of fuel now for the next few hours, accelerating past the tanker in full afterburner. The jets gave an impromptu airshow of eight engines of fire, passing the large airline-size Stratotanker with ease.
“Pilots, boom back here. Mission complete in the rear with zero jets remaining,” Angelo announced.
The Niagara pilots up front checked their kneeboard cards and timeline with a quick chat up front in the cockpit. The aircraft commander saw they were complete for today and made their decision to head back to the Niagara base.
“Ok, copy, boom. Thanks. We’re heading home to land,” one of the pilots replied. “Prepare for a descent.”
“Hey pilots, we need to get back and meet the new rookie pilot due in today. Heard something around about it,” Angelo said, baiting them.
“Oh yeah, boom. Who is this rookie you mention?” the other pilot asked, chuckling.
“You just wait, sir. A new surprise pilot is joining the squadron,” he said, pausing. “You’ll never in a million years guess who it is.”
Chapter 3
New York State Thruway
Ford Stevens’ little brother wasn’t so little anymore and had made the decision years ago to follow in his brother’s footsteps and fly. First Lieutenant Charlie Stevens, now 30 years old with a consistent aggressive attitude, was driving westbound on the New York State Thruway, glancing in his Jeep Wrangler’s mirrors and checking for Troopers. Jamming to ’90s bands, he looked at the GPS map for the next town ahead. Coming up was Batavia, then Buffalo, with his final destination at the base. With a medium build at five-foot-ten and handsome, his chiseled high cheek bones and short dark hair gave off just the right kind of boyish charm that girls found attractive.
Charlie also liked to live life at full throttle, maybe too much throttle in his younger days.
“Hi dad, how are you?” Charlie said into the speaker.
“Hello Charlie. I’m good. Where are you?” Chad asked.
“I’m on I-90 near Buffalo, New York. On my way to the squadron to check in.”
The 569-mile New York State Thruway, also known as I-90 in the middle of the state, had beautiful scenery in the summer while the long winter months made you consider why you had not moved to sunny Florida yet. It was the moist, cold wind that found a way under your winter jacket nestling between your shirt and skin that felt the worst.
“Good, good. I remember taking your mom up there years ago. Wintertime no less. Shared the road with a couple of large snowplows and a couple of locals wrestling to get to work on time. It’s that lake effect snow,” Chad recalled.
“Yeah, got that right now. No sun in sight here. Gray overcast skies and a few ‘Go Bills’ signs along the highway,” Charlie replied.
“Bills Mafia and chicken wings territory! Yep. So, how do you feel about the squadron, Charlie? You’re good on checking in?” his father asked.
Charlie was indeed nervous, and already had butterflies in his stomach upon seeing the “City of Neighbors” sign off the Thruway.
“I feel good, dad. Confident. I know this is a big deal, but I feel good about the decision, especially Niagara and this flying wing,” Charlie replied. “Will be hitting the Falls soon.”
Niagara Falls was home to the Air Force Reserve’s 914th Air Refueling Wing, 328th Air Refueling Squadron, located at the Niagara Falls Air Reserve Station. Like so many bases in the United States, a variety of airframes had come and gone from assignments at Niagara. Everyone knew the politicians made the decisions, and the senior military officers went along with the shell game. Each of the military services would put their recommendations forward on budget slides and make speeches on why they unconditionally needed a certain airplane at a specific base, but always knew the decisions came from professional politicians. Once politics got in the way, the military leadership team knew they could count on an airframe change coming soon. Whether they agreed or disagreed, change was constant at all the bases, including Niagara.
Chad paused in thought for a moment. “Charlie, these reservists have completed, full-time careers in the private sector. I think you understand, but the Reserve duty is a part-time side job. They put their families and careers on hold to serve their country, like I did. You know, nights and weekends, sometimes months at a time if I got called up,” he told him.
Charlie didn’t roll his eyes, but felt another lecture coming. He knew his dad meant well.
“Charlie, the reserves do the same workload or more than the full-time active component aircrews do. The same rules, same policies, same amount of minimum flight time required each month to stay proficient. The difference was the Reserve component did it with business school metrics efficiency.”
“Yes, dad. I know. I’m wearing the uniform, remember? I’m in it now. Flight school complete. Got the bars on my shoulders. Ready to go,” Charlie replied.
Charlie was both eager and jittery to report to his first squadron as a new co-pilot, wearing the single shiny silver bar rank on his shoulder of a first lieutenant. He was older than a typical co-pilot, which translated in his mind to being wiser and more life-experienced than some 21-year-old straight out of college. Others might have viewed it as a chip on his shoulder. Charlie was as fierce and competitive and rebellious as they came and a rapid responder to any wise-ass aircrew member crossing his path. This was true at the 328th Air Refueling Squadron, where he heard at pilot training that the ball-busting was legendary for new rookies. Hence, his going-in attitude was to take no one’s crap. This was before he even arrived at the main gate.
“I know son, just excited for you. Mom is, too. After dealing with the criminals and dirt bags down in Myrtle Beach, you got this covered.”
“Thanks, dad. Tell her I said thanks. Just wanted to let you know I made it. Will be there soon,” Charlie replied as he wrapped up the call.
The travel time allowed Charlie to reflect on his exceptional, but scattered, past life experiences. Family members knew it took him a while to find himself in life, taking a little longer than usual to complete college at the University of South Carolina, then taking a bit more time to find a full-time job that he liked. His late-in-life learning disability diagnosis of dyslexia didn’t help either, and he definitely took longer than his wonder-boy brother to find a career he would accelerate in.
Charlie had tried waitering, then bartending, and road construction. He backpacked across Europe at one point, lived in Fairfax County, Virginia, laying fiber-optic lines, then later Myrtle Beach as a t-shirt silk screener near the ocean.
After exploring the country high and low, Charlie loved South Carolina enough to stay and became a police officer. After being recruited, he signed up to take the National Police Selection Test for the City of Myrtle Beach. Then he completed the essay and other administrative requirements, followed by the physical agility course and interview. Before he knew it, Charlie was a graduate of the South Carolina Criminal Justice Academy in Columbia. Assigned to the Patrol Division on the Grand Strand, he enjoyed the job. It was a solid fit for his personality.
Ever since the Okinawa incident, when their dad had taken them to see his F-15 backseat flight, Charlie had considered flying but never followed up on it as Ford did. It took years for both the boys to recover from the episode. Their mom even brought them to a school counselor, but it was short-lived. In the back of his mind, he always had an inkling to fly, but never took any steps to make it happen. Perhaps because of the emotional turmo
il of that day, finding out hours later about his dad’s fate.
“Confident and less cockiness today,” Charlie whispered to himself. He wanted to make a good impression on the squadron and their pilots.
Charlie moved his arm up to his nose to take a whiff of his issued brown flight jacket, giving off a sharp, woodsy scent that he inhaled. Proud of his new silver pilot wings pressed onto a rectangular leather nameplate on his left chest, he read it out loud in a near comical fashion.
“Charlie Stevens, First Lieutenant,” he said in a loud, in-charge tone.
The jacket and name tag were ‘out of the package’ brand new, almost too new and shiny. He was beaming at his wings and jacket, though; with a 50 percent graduation rate, he couldn’t help but be proud.
In order to even be considered for the extensive training program all military pilots went through, candidates had to be in the top percentile of fit, capable bodies. After taking the interview, written exams, and four years of college, pilots had to pass the first of many physicals and then years of grueling flight training.
Parking his Jeep, Charlie saw a few guys wearing flight suits coming over to get in their nearby car. What stood out to him were their well-worn leather nametags – he was unable to read their crew position or names – and worn flight suits. I’m so the FNG. These guys were old hands and oozed experience with a been-there-done-that attitude. The veteran guys backed out of their parking space, and Charlie opened his back door to see his U.S. Air Force Reserve circular patch on one of his backpacks. Butterflies in my stomach. In both of his sweaty hands, he carried green nylon helmet bags full of pilot gear from when he was a flight student just weeks ago.
Not knowing what to expect, he walked in the front door of the squadron. Maybe a small group of people welcoming me? They know I’m coming. His inside voice was on fire upon entering the building. They might have a few pilots around to say hello? Doubt hand-made signs, but you never know.
Charlie entered the first set of glass doors, eyeing the crustiest, silver-haired, mustached aircrew member that he ever saw. The Reservist was standing in the hallway, staring at him coming in the glass doors, both of his hands on his hips. Senior Master Sergeant Angelo Bucca, a former C-130 Flight Engineer and now boom operator, approached Charlie as he attempted to come in the double set of glass doors. Charlie, struggling to enter, got his bags stuck. Looking clumsy, he yanked them through while causing a small commotion. Charlie quickly got a glance of Angelo and saw he didn’t show an ounce of emotion.
Angelo stood with his arms folded across his chest like a marble statue. Charlie’s forehead beaded with sweat from his efforts and nerves and barely got his gear through. He looked like a total noob.
Bucca shook his head in disgust. “Hey. Who are you, rookie? You lost?” His voice boomed like a rock concert speaker, both loud and deep.
Charlie was startled that this noncommissioned officer didn’t address him with a “sir” per protocol standards. Hey, I’m an officer.
“The name is First Lieutenant Stevens. Checking in today and–”
“Stevens, eh? I bet you’re checking in.” Silence. “First lieutenant. We don’t have first lieutenants here.” Angelo then yelled out, “Holy Jesus!”
Charlie was ready to tell him to keep it down, not seeing a need to bellow out his arrival. Couldn’t you keep it down? “Look, yeah, I’m a pilot and—”
Angelo put his index finger up in the air in a dramatic fashion, turned his head to the old beige phone on the wall, and picked up the handset. His same index finger hit a single button.
Out of the building’s public address system came Angelo’s announcement.
“Attention in the 328th Air Refueling Squadron. Attention. We gotta new guy checking in at the front. New pilot. Get this… a first lieutenant.” Then a pause. “Hey boss, you better get over to the south doors. Your little brother arrived.”
Crap. No. No. Why’d you do that?
The interior of the squadron spaces looked similar to other training squadrons Charlie had been in, but this one was different in a good way. Operational. Worldly. Maybe sophisticated? Plenty of engraved, brass plaques on the wall, a small waiting area with a few Kelly green cushioned seats, and a Ready Room sign displaying an arrow for direction.
Some civilians poked their heads outside offices right away, glancing at the new pilot coming in the doorway. This is embarrassing. Tough. I’m a winged pilot, so stare. Some of them gave him the stink eye. Far from what I had imagined coming into the new place.
Most of the veteran aircrew in flight suits ignored him, but there Charlie stood, filling the doorway, looking like a fledgling deer in headlights. No one assisted him, just the opposite of the festive welcome parade he played out in his mind.
Angelo had walked away by now, so Charlie walked in on his own. Passing years of historical photos of flight crews all over the hallway, he was enthralled with the many C-130 Hercules photos covering the walls. Guys with big mustaches and 1980s short-shorts. Experienced C-130 Loadmasters stood on the top of Hercules wings, all looking like they were the ones in charge. Cockpit photos of smiling flight engineers sitting in-between the two pilots, many of them with their heads titled up towards all sorts of dials, switches, and buttons.
There were even more photos of the men flying over foreign countries Charlie had never seen before, while in aeronautical formation, with another half-dozen of the pilots standing in bars and beaches. With a solid balance of color and black and white photos, someone did a remarkable job with the wall layout of history.
Charlie dropped his bags and walked up to the Operations counter, which resembled the height of a bar. In front of him was a large white dry-erase board with a table of aircraft tail numbers displaying their flying schedule. Charlie also saw a bunch of computer screens displaying flight information, and an all-weather radar monitor showed the local weather for western New York.
Captain Pat Ridley got up out of his watch officer seat as the operations duty officer and shook his hand.
“I heard you might be coming in today. Another Stevens. I’m Pat. Welcome to the squadron.”
Charlie nodded and was thankful someone at least recognized his presence.
“Thank you, sir. Good to be on the team. I’d like to check in.”
Pat chuckled and looked him up and down. “We don’t call anyone ‘sir’ in the 328th. This is the Reserves. Except maybe the squadron commander and wing king. Half the guys in the unit couldn’t give a crap with the military courtesies. They only spend a few hours a week flying, then they’re back to their careers. Other half of the guys are cousins or related to each other. Like you.”
Charlie shook his head, surprised.
“You even look like your big brother. Does he know you’re coming to check in now?
“Maybe, but we haven’t talked in a while. Just graduated from flight school the other week. I invited him, but he didn’t come. Left him a few voicemails letting him know I was arriving today. Sent him a text, too.”
“Well, you were mentioned by name during the morning announcements earlier, so he probably knows. Just know his workload is intense. Rarely on that phone and even less with texts. Like he has a phobia of people knowing his business,” Pat told him, raising his fingers to make air quotes. “The government is watching him… like, China, or something,” Pat laughed. “He’s always yapping about the great power competition that Washington is talking about, but we don’t care about it up here. We just fly.”
Charlie nodded like he understood, but he didn’t.
Pat moved towards the doorway. “Your bro is out with the Colonel, the wing commander. I’m sure he’ll be back in a few minutes. Take a look down the hall,” Pat pointed, “that’s the locker room. Pilot Room is up on the right. Around the corner are the boom operators. Enlisted guys. They bite, so I wouldn’t go in unescorted.”
What doe
s that mean? “Okay, thanks. Where can I grab a bite to eat?”
“Yeah, sure. If the bowling alley is open, that’s one. Chow hall is open on weekends when the rest of the Reservists are drilling. Off base, can’t go wrong with Judi’s Lounge.”
“Thanks, sir… Pat.”
“You got it, Charlie,” Pat told him, pausing, but had more to say. “Hey, you ready?”
Catching Charlie off guard, he tilted his head. “Ready for what?”
Pat warmly smiled, and looked at him as an innocent kid through a father’s eyes. “You don’t know, do you?”
This stopped Charlie dead in his tracks. “I guess I don’t. What is it?”
Pat continued to look at Charlie. “You have no idea what’s about to happen to you. This place is intense. The crews. The dangerous, off-the-charts flying. The competitiveness. This place… this–”
“What?” Charlie asked quickly with a bit of an attitude, not understanding.
Pat shook his head in a letdown fashion. “This place is going to rock your freaking world, Lieutenant. Just… just stand the hell by.”
Charlie nodded and briskly walked away, his stomach grumbling. “Wonder what that was for?” he said under his breath, his embarrassment colliding with his temper.
He took a few more steps down the hallway.
“What did I get myself into?”
Chapter 4
Outside of Corpus Christi, Texas
The crusty but experienced colonel, with thousands of flight hours behind him, was inspecting the mishap site from the Unmanned Aerial Vehicle (UAV) video feed. An unlit cigarette in his mouth, he squinted out at the Texas horizon one more time, then back to the screen for the feed from above. Corpus Christi weather could be a steamy, wet sauna during certain times of the year, but it was easy to walk around the empty grass field today to inspect the aircraft wreckage. As they began their mid-morning trek, the only other life in the field coiled within the rattlesnake dens.
The Buffalo Pilot: A Ford Stevens Military-Aviation Thriller (Book 3) Page 3