The Buffalo Pilot: A Ford Stevens Military-Aviation Thriller (Book 3)

by Lawrence Colby

  “You see that sign coming in, Grape? It said, ‘World Championship Rattlesnake Races.’ What’s a rattlesnake race? A world championship?” the colonel asked.

  His assistant nodded as he concentrated on the live UAV feed on the screen, the camera focused on both them and the wreckage site from above.

  The colonel walked across the empty field, deliberately scanning from left to right in a pattern, on the hunt for evidence ranging from dead birds to aircraft parts. There was burned grass and black ash, too, about the size of a gas station parking lot, with the heat of a few thousands of degrees generated yesterday from the T-38 Talon wreckage. The local City of Mathis, Texas, population 4,900, dispatched their Volunteer Fire Department yesterday to extinguish much of the mishap aircraft with fire retardant foam and water. Many times, aircraft impacting the earth resulted in a fire or complete destruction of the airframe, leaving little wreckage to investigate. There were a few recognizable pieces that the two investigators would analyze, and as needed, send to the laboratory. The San Patricio County Coroner came to help retrieve the body parts, as well as the Mathis City Police Department. Finding the lower torso of a burned pilot in one location, and the upper torso in a separate site, was a first for both of them.

  The colonel was dispatched with his investigation team to determine the cause of the military aircraft mishap and to help prevent the Air Force from having more mishaps in the future. Sometimes they found causes to be mechanical failure, such as an engine failure or fuel-related problem. Other times, causations led to bad weather or pilot error related to a training issue. One time, he discovered a pilot was taking cold medicine when she shouldn’t have, and it affected her decision-making and judgment while airborne at 40,000 feet. An infinite number of reasons an aircraft could crash existed, and it was Colonel Werner “Zeke” Ziehmann’s job to figure it all out.

  Zeke knew people, an avid observer of the human condition, and saw just about all there was to see with young, aggressive spring-chicken pilots. The younger pilots were in awe of his presence. He was a legend in the Air Force, and his crusty, straight-in-your-face attitude regarding some of the quirky rules and policies was what made the new generation laugh their asses off with him. Zeke walked a thin line with the general officers above him, which explained why he never became one.

  The king of practical jokes, always with a cigarette in his mouth and a thick Chicago accent, he was straight out of Hollywood central casting. The B-2 Spirit Ready Room in Guam, his last squadron, laughed at the way he could keep a lit cigarette off his lip, down low, and could keep it steady while jaw jacking. They’d howl at his stories. At the Officers’ Club, they would impersonate his thick Chicago accent and excessive hand waving, always a cigarette butt hanging on the edge of his mouth. The weekend comedy sketch stuff made their stomachs hurt from laughing. Some of the older guys even heard about him flying while smoking, something you could never get away with in today’s politically correct environment and push for health.

  “Fly the frickin’ jet. Don’t worry ’bout my smoking!” was often overheard through history by many co-pilots, according to legend. Certain pilots also knew of his Distinguished Flying Cross, but it was never discussed out in public. Zeke was an old-fashioned character in a good way and was treasured by so many of the good aircrew he worked with.

  He continued to walk to the calf-length grassy area like he owned the place, holding a clear plastic bag in one hand for evidence while snapping on tight blue plastic gloves on his hands. No burnt grass here. Just observing the environment for anything interesting, he paced the flight path. The trench made by the high-speed jet made a plowed path when it smacked the earth, and he continued walking just to see what was around the area.

  Observing up, then down at the ground, he came across steel cables they had missed seeing earlier. The thick steel cable kind that looked like they relayed power. “What da heck is dis? Turner, come over. What’s dis liddle cable here?”

  It was no little steel cable, but a dense electrical power line that stretched as far as they could see. It lay at their feet, some of it coiled, while the remainder continued through the grass.

  Zeke’s assistant, Captain Gordon “Grape” Turner, was working alongside him and came over to see what Zeke was looking at. He checked the digital maps and satellite imagery on his electronic device.

  “No power lines in this field. None,” he said as he scrolled and moved his fingers around the screen. “Ah, sir, wait. There is a set of power lines over to the left of that church steeple,” he continued, now pointing, “running northwest, maybe, what, a quarter-mile away? Not on the maps or imagery.”

  Zeke took his binoculars after studying the maps, looking over Grape’s shoulder. He pulled them up to his face, squinting in the sun as he spotted the high-tension power lines suspended in the air by tall transmission towers. He moved the binos around some more, scanning.

  “Yeah, Grape, dis here liddle cable should be up on that tower. New glittery one, out of the cellophane packaging, towers at that. Hmm…cable’s definitely missing. No aviation obstruction markers installed yet. I can see the modular suspension insulators up there, but no ASCR’s or even new carbon core cables. Huh. Between the two towers in dis line of sight, here.”

  “That is weird, sir. Power company must not have relayed it to the FAA yet. What the heck is a… what did you say, ASCR?”

  “Come on, Grapey. ASCR, kid. Aluminum conductor steel reinforced.”

  “If you say so, sir. I was a biology major.”

  “You never heard of Kelvin’s Law? Optimum size of an electrical line for efficiency and cost?”

  “No, sir. I also don’t recall the police or county sheriff mentioning wires were down. Never mentioned that to us.”

  “Well, ain’t surprised. Local PD and county sheriffs hate each other most of the time. Hate is pretty strong, okay, dislike. Jurisdiction fights. Our issue, so far, is no witnesses out here to interview. Them kids around here got phones, though. The Snap something or other. The Video Tube. All of ’em. But… I got a hunch, Grape, got a hunch,” Zeke said.

  Grape snickered out loud at his inaccurate social media comments, blaming it on his older age. “No one calls it ‘The’ anything. Ok, Boomer? What hunch you got, sir?” replied Grape, wondering how Zeke could know already.

  “I got it. Tell me the name of dis pilot once more?”

  “Let me see,” Grape said. He shuffled through the papers on his clipboard. “Morrison, William James III.”

  “Okay,” Zeke replied, biting his cheek with his teeth. “Grape, you ready? Where’s he from?”

  He flipped the white sheet of paper over, and he scanned the list, starting from the bottom first, upwards. “Document here says born in Rome.”

  That threw Zeke off. “Rome? Italian Air Force exchange student?”

  “Nope, sir, born in Rome, Georgia. Not sure where he was raised from this sheet.”

  Now Zeke took the binos off his eyes to stare at Grape. Just beyond Grape were a few other mishap members, tending to the UAV now that it landed, then his eyes went back to Grape. “What about the co-pilot?”

  “Says, sir, co-pilot was born in Arizona. That’s what his sheet says from the squadron.”

  That didn’t match with what Zeke was reviewing in his mind. “Damnit. No.”

  Zeke pulled out a cellphone and made another call to the Mathis Police. After a quick exchange of information, the police chief was going to look into the power outage scenario before and after the mishap timeline. I’m sure I know what this is.

  “What do you mean, no? His biography sheet says Arizona,” Grape repeated.

  Zeke had a number of crazy scenarios going around his head, ranging from the pilot fooling around to maybe having an in-flight engine emergency. Maybe they tried to save the aircraft, and they just hit that power line on the way down? No mayday calls? Could be hydraul
ics. Oil. Bird strike. Hard to tell this early on, but ole Zeke would figure it out. He always did.

  “No. Now gimme a light, Grape,” he said as he put a fresh one in his mouth. He was the kind of guy that smoked, put it out, and lit up one more. Size 46 flight suit, but full of muscle. Aviation Safety education was part military, but he learned the most through the University of Southern California Mishap Investigation Program. He was both knowledgeable out in the field and in the classroom, combining a rare combination of operations and academics.

  Zeke walked over to what was remaining of the T-38 Talon engines, which looked about the size of a residential trash can. He studied the external parts, tracing the veins of the General Electric J85 Turbofan blades connecting to other engine components. He looked at the remaining small pieces of the air intakes, the burned wire bundles, then the remnants of the fuel and oil lines. He got up off his knees and made his way back to the vertical tail section, inspecting the composite component like a medical doctor measures a tumor.

  The tail intrigued him, something about the shape. It was made of strong composite materials that could handle the high pressures of a high-performance jet. Something wasn’t right.

  Why did it look like this? Why is this section at this location and the top section located a few hundred feet away? How can the tail be separated from the rest of the fuselage, and why is our pilot cut in two? Zeke wondered.

  He crouched down, stretching his green flight suit to near a tear on his butt. Grape looked away, smirking at the old man. Standing in red mud from yesterday’s light rain, he leaned his face down into the tail. A comprehensive look. The top section of the grey tail looked like it was sliced with a knife at a weird angle, as if someone with an electric saw sheared it off.

  “Whadda you make of dis here, Grape?”

  Grape joined him on a knee and took a look.

  “I’m pretty sure I know what happened in dis here situation, Grapey,” Zeke said. He finished the cigarette, flipped it, and stepped it into the mud. “I got it.” Zeke had figured it out already. “Grape, I’ll bet you a beer at the bar tonight, and a shot of bourbon, that dis here pilot lives in this town. Hometown. Not where he was born. Dis is his hometown, grew up here, isn’t it?”

  Grape Turner had his head down in the clipboard once more, looking when the police returned in their Ford SUV. Light rack. Blue lettering.

  “I don’t know, sir, but the police just returned. Let’s ask him if he knows our pilot.” Curious at Zeke’s comments, Grape had to ask. “What’s up with the connection to his hometown?”

  “Been around the block, Grape,” Zeke answered, turning to talk with the cop just arriving. “Morning.”

  “Morning, colonel. Brought ya some local Noble’s coffee from over in town. How y’all doin’?”

  “Much obliged. Thank ya. We’re doin’ good, doin’ real good.”

  “I reckon y’all be out in the field for the day, so I’ll be sure to have Sally from the Nueces Street office bring out some of her BBQ. She smokes it up real nice.”

  “Thank you kindly. Real nice of you.”

  “I just had to come out an’ see y’all. We never had no person cut in two before.”

  “We’re working on it. Lots to put together over the next few weeks… like a crime scene in the police department. Got a question for you. You seem to know the folks in town pretty well, I’ll bet?”

  “Yes, sir. Sure do. Born and raised. I was a Pirate over at Mathis High School. Football player and all. Then my daddy got me over to the police academy. Know just about all the families from the lakeshore, through town, out to Edroy on I-37.”

  “Figured as such. That’s really good. Real impressive. Say, you got a local family with the last name of… Grape, what’s dis pilot’s name?”

  “William James Morrison III.”

  The police officer nodded his head. “Yep, sure do. Billy James. Grew up here as a kid. Good boy. Went to your Air Force Academy. The Morrisons live over by the park, and his old man works at the treatment plant.”

  The cop appeared to Zeke that he was not following the line of questioning.

  “How’s Billy James involved again? You’re saying he was the pilot? The ‘cut in two’ dead pilot?” asked the cop.

  Zeke glanced out to the west toward Lake Corpus Christi. “We ain’t saying nothin’ particular. Just asking questions about dis here mishap. What I am saying is… Grape, turn on your recorder…”

  Grape fidgeted around with his smartphone as Zeke waited.

  “It looks like dis T-38 pilot took off from Enid, Oklahoma, and made it a visit to his hometown of Mathis. Training wing. Instructor pilot, no less. My prediction is that he was flat-hatting, you know, fooling around at low altitude and a high airspeed. There’re no low-altitude navigation training routes in this section of Texas, so no reason to be this low unless he made a conscious decision to do it, or had a malfunction. Let’s go with flat-hatting for a moment, you following?”

  “I reckon,” said the cop as he looked up into the sky.

  “Got ya, alright, so. I bet he was fooling around, maybe generating a rooster tail on the lake and kicking up some spray, trying to impress his old girlfriend, entertaining some local high school friends. I don’t know yet. Bet some kids ’round these here parts got video of it. I know they do. They post all the crap on the social media all day long. Anyway. Our pilot wanted to fly over his parents’ place, and unfortunately, these wires hit his canopy, separated his body in two. Then the cable took off his vertical stabilizer, maybe even hit the elevator, sheared at least the top of the tail off. Caused instability of balanced flight. He may have even rolled inverted at low altitude in order to show off for family or friends in town. And I know Captain Morrison was flying it because the imprint of the rudder pedals was stamped into the bottom of his rubber soled boots. Impact leaves a mark on the pilot flying at the moment.”

  Zeke looked at Grape, and he seemed beside himself. His face showed as if Grape had never seen a Jet Engine Aircraft Mishap Investigation textbook, not comprehending the imprints on a dead pilot’s boots.

  Zeke continued his narration. “From the electrical cable on the tail. Morrison never saw the high-tension power lines in his old neighborhood because they were just erected and installed. These new steel lattice towers support 4-inch all-aluminum alloy cables, along with bundle conductors used to reduce the thermal sag. The loss of the missing tail affected the pitch of the nose, caused the excess of the yaw, and dis mishap pilot lost control of the aircraft. Okay, stop tape, Grape.”

  The cop looked at Zeke, puzzled by all the technical talk. “You don’t say? Huh. I just know they’re electricity cables. Hear ’em sizzle in the summer heat like butter an’ bacon in the frying pan.”

  No one said anything.

  “You want me to give ole Jimmy and Sue Morrison a jingle or wait?” the cop asked.

  Zeke didn’t expect the cop to understand it all and snickered quietly at his lack of patience.

  “We gotta wait just a bit, wrap up some more things. Protocol is to release names of service members once we can identify them 100 percent from DNA and then go public 24 hours after families have been notified. Plus, the investigation is ongoing, but that doesn’t get in the way of notification. I got your police chief’s number. I’ll work it directly with the chief.”

  “I reckon you will, colonel. Okay with me,” the cop answered.

  An Air Force Safety Board works in a similar way to the National Transportation Safety Board for civilian aircraft, sometimes taking up to sixty days or more to determine the cause of an accident. If it was criminal intent, outside agencies like the FBI were brought in, accelerating timelines.

  As the police SUV left, Grape smirked. “Crap, sir. You’re good. Looks like I owe you a couple cold ones.”

  Zeke lit up a cigarette. “And a bourbon, kid.”

 
; Zeke thought about how many friends he’d lost through the years, losing count of the amount of funerals he had attended. This was just how dangerous military aviation was.

  “Hey Grapey, you know, each time we go up, inhaling that kerosene and strapping her in on our backs, we take a risk. Peacetime or wartime, there was always a chance it was our final flight, ending in tragedy. You leave the wife home alone and the kids get no father anymore. The same danger existed for all missions for all aircrew. More when you were in combat, but even in peacetime, it’s just a damn dangerous job.” He took a long drag.

  “I never flew sir, I’m just an engineer,” Grape replied.

  Zeke nodded in understanding, not knowing if Grape was a flight school dropout or just was never attracted to being at the controls of a 600 mile an hour, $90 million jet.

  Zeke took his flight-suited arm and ran it across his forehead to wipe off the sweat. He then took a red bandanna out of his flight suit pocket and wiped the back of his wet neck. Zeke stood with one foot off to the side with his hands on his hips, looking out at the horizon as two Navy trainers flew together high in the clear blue Texas sky. He inhaled his smoke deeply, feeling the menthol in his mouth that he loved so much. Holding the butt with only the tips of his fingers and thumb, resting his knuckles backwards on his right hip, he pondering how absolutely unforgiving military aviation could be on any given day.

  “Yeah, ok, Grape. You’d never know the risks we take then.”

  At the end of the day, Zeke knew it was not only the most dangerous job in the world, but the best one on earth. If you didn’t fly, you didn’t get it. It was just that good of a career and life experience that is was worth the excessive risk to the thousands of aircrews who were bit by the so-called aviation bug.

  And Zeke couldn’t believe after 30 years of service, he was still getting paid to do it.

  Chapter 5

  Niagara Falls Air Reserve Station, Niagara Falls, New York

  Charlie continued to think about Pat’s pseudo warning to ‘stand by’ related to joining the squadron as he walked down the gray-and-white tile-lined hallway, flight bags in each hand, looking like a freshman at a new high school. Each hallway of the squadron was lined with more rich history than the last one, ranging from World War II to the present. A variety of aircrew and aircraft were shown in the photographs, smiles all around. Tough. In control. Experienced. There were more squadron awards on the wall, in addition to awards from foreign militaries and allies. The place was like a museum. Southeast Asia. Balkans. Vietnam. Tabuk. Southwest Asia. Balad. Al Udeid. It just kept going.