by Mark Tufo
“Sir!” Watkins responds, opens the door, and salutes.
“Sergeant Watkins, escort Captain Walker to his aircraft and see it’s refueled. He’ll be departing within the hour,” Colonel Wilson orders Watkins.
“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Watkins says. “Shall I notify the general, sir?”
“That won’t be necessary, sergeant,” Wilson responds.
“Yes, sir,” Watkins says after a pause, accentuating the underlying subtleties involved with the decision and order.
Sergeant Watkins and I start out of the door to Colonel Wilson’s office when Wilson calls to us, “Captain Walker.”
I turn back toward him, “Yes, sir.”
“Godspeed and good luck, son,” he says.
“Thank you, sir. And to you as well.”
The image of him sitting behind his desk in the rays of the morning sun is forever imprinted on my mind. Calloway and the other airman are waiting outside the door as the sergeant and I exit. They take up their previous stations behind me.
“Calloway, Foster, at ease. The captain has been cleared,” Watkins says. I hear the distinct click of fire select levers being flipped to what I hope is ‘safe’ as we head down the stairs and out to the vehicle.
During the drive back to the flight line, I think about my conversation with Colonel Wilson. He seems a strict yet fair man, and it certainly does seem he has stuck his neck out for us. I imagine General Collins is not going to be pleased in the least when he finds out that Wilson let us go. Colonel Wilson could have kept us here to take care of his own personnel but let us go on with our ‘mission’ to save others. I believe, in his mind, he could have saved his own at the expense of others but did what he felt was the right thing to do in spite of the potential consequences with Collins.
A good man, I think, feeling guilty about continuing on considering that I don’t even know if Lynn is alive or not, but these people certainly are. But that guilt is minimal compared to my need to keep my commitment to Lynn. I will be returning here in a couple of days, and I’ll do what I can to help them.
“Colonel Wilson is a good man, sir,” Sergeant Watkins says as if reading my mind.
“He is at that, sergeant,” I say, responding from the front passenger seat this time.
We return to the flight line and I see our aircraft sitting in its original position as the morning rays of the sun strike it. Several security vehicles still surround the front in a semi-circle, yet I also see a fuel truck heading along the taxiway toward it. Behind me, I hear Sergeant Watkins speaking into his mic, “Alpha, you are cleared off. Bravo, remain in place and bring the weapons to my vehicle when we arrive. And clear room for the fuel truck to get through.”
“Alpha copy. Bravo copy,” I hear the responses come through his radio.
We arrive, stopping by the open aircraft crew door just on the heels of the truck as it pulls alongside our 130 and the re-fuelers attach the fuel line. The kids are seated at the foot of the door with two security guards standing nearby facing them while many of the other security personnel head into several of the parked vehicles. Two security personnel stand at the rear of the aircraft by the open ramp. Two soldiers walk up to Sergeant Watkins as I exit.
“Bravo, stand down and head to your vehicles,” Watkins says over his radio as we head over to where Robert, Michelle, Nic, and Bri are sitting.
“Bravo copies,” I hear.
“You two, stay with me,” I hear him say behind me.
By the time we reach the door, the security surrounding the kids have turned and left to their vehicles, along with the two from the rear of the aircraft. The kids stand as the guards leave.
“Sir, I believe these are yours,” Watkins says, handing us our weapons with the sound of vehicles starting up and leaving in the background.
“Thank you, sergeant,” I say taking them from the two MPs at his side. I hand the .45 back to Robert and the .38 to Michelle taking the two Berettas and the M-4. “I wish you the best of luck.”
“And to you, sir,” he says, saluting.
I return his salute and the three of them turn back toward their vehicles and head down the taxiway in Alpha’s wake. The sound of the fuel truck drowns out any other noise from the flight line and base.
“I take it from the fact that the truck is giving us gas and they gave us our weapons back that everything went well,” Robert says as we head up the stairs.
“Yeah, it went fine. I’ll fill you in on the details later. Right now, we have to head out after we are refueled,” I say as we head down the aisle to the rear of the cargo compartment and close the ramp.
“By heading out, you mean we are flying out now?” Robert has to shout above the noise of the closing ramp and fuel truck just outside.
“Yes, now go get strapped in and ready to leave,” I shout back.
The ramp closes, shutting out a majority of the noise outside, and I walk up the aisle a little behind everyone else. They head up the cockpit stairs, and I head outside into the early morning sun to do a walk around. A strong northerly breeze has sprung up bringing a chill to the day. With the wind whipping against my flight suit, I walk around the aircraft checking for any damage and overall airworthiness. The fuel truck is reeling its hose in. I make sure the fuel hatch is latched and secured as the truck drives away leaving just the sound of the wind flapping against my clothes. With a final glance at the base and surrounding area, I close the crew door and head back to the cockpit.
Turning the power on, I check the batteries, assuring they are still fine, and turn on the radios once the checks are complete.
“Lajes ground, Otter 39 starting engines,” I call.
“Otter 39, ground, roger,” Ground Control responds.
We start up the engines and get ready to taxi. “Lajes ground, Otter 39, taxi.”
“Otter 39, ground, taxi to runway 15, altimeter three zero one four.”
“Otter 39, three-zero-one-four,” I confirm.
We taxi along, parallel to the runway and, once we arrive there, contact the tower for takeoff.
“Otter 39, Lajes tower, you are cleared for takeoff. Maintain runway heading and contact departure passing three thousand,” the tower gives us our clearance.
Pushing the throttles up, the engines respond with their deep, throaty roar, and we accelerate down the runway, lifting off into a blue sky dotted here and there with high, white clouds. Cleaning up the aircraft and passing through three thousand feet, we contact departure and are cleared to flight level 250 and direct.
“See you on our return, Lajes,” I reply.
“Good luck to you, Otter 39,” Lajes departure says.
We are about a hundred and fifty miles out when the radio comes alive again. “Otter 39, Lajes departure, over.”
I look at the radio suspiciously wondering whether to answer. Glancing at Robert, I see him looking at me out from under his helmet. He merely shrugs. I press the talk button. “Lajes departure, Otter 39, over.”
“Otter 39, you are instructed to return to Lajes.” I knew I shouldn’t have answered.
“Lajes, you are coming in broken and garbled, over,” I say responding to their ‘request’.
A pause ensues.
“Captain Walker, this is General Collins and I am ordering you to return to Lajes.”
“General, I apologize, but I am unable to comply as I have standing orders to complete my mission,” I respond.
“Captain! Dammit, I am countermanding those orders and you will turn that god-damned airplane around!” Collins says, raising his voice.
Note to self, do NOT answer the radio once we are away from any airfield that is still under control. I am already calculating a different route home. I look around the cockpit; four sets of eyes are alternating between the radio and me.
“General, sir, I have a direct order from General Billings, and your orders are contrary to the completion of my mission,” I reply.
I am thinking it is fortunate there are not
any pilots remaining there or we would soon have the pleasant company of a flight of F-15s or F-18s parked alongside of us.
There is another pause. “Captain Walker. I am then ordering you to return here for refueling once your pickup is complete.”
“Yes, sir. I anticipate a return in approximately forty-eight hours. And general, sir, good luck to you,” I say.
A much longer pause, “Good luck to you as well, captain. I hope you get those soldiers out. Lajes out!”
A dark line appears off the nose on the horizon where the blue sky meets the blue of the Atlantic; the coast of Portugal. Our route will take us over central Spain and out over the Mediterranean Sea skirting the toe of Italy. I would rather have just flown up the central Med and avoid country over-flights, but the distance and our range dictates as direct a route as possible. I expect to be intercepted if there is any military capable of flight left on this side of the ocean. I continue making calls on guard but hear nothing beyond the continued silence as we make our way through the daylight and into night while the sun sets behind us in a fiery display.
On into the night we fly, taking turns napping and monitoring the aircraft. Our external tanks have long ago emptied and we are on our last few hours of flight with the fuel remaining onboard. About two hundred miles out from Kuwait, I start a gradual descent with the bright stars and quarter moon lighting our way. The ground below us is dark with the exception of a few fires in the distance at various points with some just showing an orange glow as the smoke conceals the extent of the fire below. It has been this way since the sun descended, darkening the world above and below as it wends its way around to get ready for its rise and another day.
I feel wary about transiting through this area. I mean, after all, this is a war zone. If there are any fighters still around and capable, odds dictate this is the place they would most likely be. However, there is no reply to my calls on guard or lights suddenly showing up on our wingtips. Nor do we suddenly blow up. About fifty miles out, I see a very faint glow on the horizon ahead of us. I am unsure whether it is just a glow from another fire or actual lights. Continuing my descent, running through my checks, and setting up the NAV, I make a call on guard, “This is Otter 39 on UHF guard. Anyone read?”
Chapter 124
Playing in the Sandbox
Sergeant First Class Lynn Connell hangs up the phone attached to her computer, ever so thankful to have it. That and the Internet service provided here in Kuwait allow her to maintain contact with her boyfriend back in the States; their twice-daily calls and contact eases the deployment to a large degree. During the times the Internet was down, time seemed to drag on for an eternity when she was off work. It’s not like she could just waltz down for some beer and darts, so it was reading and the Internet.
God, a beer would go down good, she thinks, shutting off her laptop and getting ready for yet another day in the desert.
Today just has the feel of one of those days; well, every day here is one of those days, but this one just feels different. Packing up her gear, she opens the steel barracks door and steps out into the blazing morning sun, the temperature already beginning its climb to another scorching day.
Sand! I hate sand! She thinks, adjusting her polarized sunglasses with her digital camo uniform instantly warm from the sun. Not much longer to go.
Looking over the top of the barracks building as she starts walking over for breakfast, she sees an aircraft descending into the small field located on the camp, silhouetted against the light blue sky. As the aircraft descends below the tan building, she ponders her day.
I have to get my shot today, she thinks, the sand stirring up beneath her boots with each step. Perhaps after lunch or after work on my way to the gym.
Most of the personnel in her office received them yesterday and, with military personnel having only forty-eight hours to get one, this is the last day to get it.
Walking down the sand-covered avenues between the buildings, Sergeant Connell arrives at the dining facility. She removes her cap and steps through the wooden door and into the cooler interior. The first thing she notices is the distinct emptiness.
Groovy, she thinks, heading to the chow line. No lines. It sure seems a lot bigger in here without the usual crowd.
Not caring why it is mostly empty, she grabs her usual omelet and notices the usual cook who makes her big omelets is not here.
“Where’s Private Sampson?” she asks as an omelet is placed on her plate and tray.
“Sick call,” the soldier answers behind the counter and clear plastic separator.
Gathering her food, Lynn glances out over the expanse and selects one of the many empty tables after grabbing a paper to read. Hacking away at the omelet with her plastic Spork, she catches up on the headlines. The first few pages note the numerous sicknesses and escalating death rate from the Cape Town flu. Another article reminds military personnel to get their vaccination by the end of the deadline. There are articles detailing the enlisted, NCO, and officer of the month along with an inside view of the tactical operations center she is associated with. The Master Sergeant list is also published, and her name is listed along with the other promotees.
“Not bad, two months in a row,” she says under her breath, remembering her picture in the paper last month as NCO of the month.
Finishing her meal, Lynn steps back out into the morning sun and walks through the climbing heat to work. The only thing different about this day from the previous three hundred and some odd ones is the amount of soldiers walking about, or lack thereof. While not a crowd, there is usually a fair number of soldiers about on various errands; but today, there are very few to be seen. Lynn sees a couple here and there rushing about some business or another, well, hurrying being a relevant term as the intensity of the sun and heat prevents too much rushing about. Walking into her building, actually a large tent structure, she notices this absence-of-people trend continuing.
Many desks are situated in neat columns and rows in a large open space to one side of the building, and she heads over to her desk. Many of the stations remain unoccupied. She settles in and fires up her computer starting her day. With the screen coming to life and logging in, Lynn opens up her email. She doesn’t see much except a brigade-wide reminder to get flu shots. A few others are reminders of meetings and miscellaneous items to take care. As she opens up her third email, her commander, Captain Braser, walks into the open area and heads immediately for Lynn’s desk. Lynn stands at attention as Captain Braser approaches.
“Sergeant Connell, I’m going to need you to cover until 21:00. There has been a number of sick calls this morning,” Braser says.
“Yes, ma’am,” Lynn replies. Captain Braser then turns and walks away.
There goes the gym, Lynn thinks, sitting once again. I really hate this place. Well, maybe it will make the day go faster. I hope Jack is still up when I get back.
She attempts to log onto her personal email account to send him a message telling him she’ll be working late but gets a notice stipulating that the site has been temporarily blocked and to contact her system administrator. She tries sending one from her work email, but it comes back as undeliverable.
Great, she thinks and dives back into work, checking with those under her command to make sure that they will be getting or have received their flu shots, along with a myriad of other tasks.
Just before noon, an email comes in extending the time to get the Cape Town flu shots for an additional twenty-four hours.
Good, I’ll just get it tomorrow, she thinks, relieved in some way.
Lynn spends the rest of the day and her shift handling inquiries, sorting through messes that a redeployment can bring about, and ensuring those under her are doing their jobs. Shutting down her workstation at 21:00, she retraces her route back to the dining facility for dinner and then to the barracks. She fires up her laptop, hoping Jack is still on but can’t get connected to the Internet.
Yep, it’s definitely been on
e of those days, she thinks, shutting it back down and settling back on her bunk with her book. I hope it’s up in the morning.
The sun has yet to make its daily appearance, but the eastern sky has started to lighten as Lynn wakes up early the next morning and heads over to the gym. The night chill still hangs in the air as she sleepily makes her way amongst the darkened buildings under the outside lights on the building entrances and along the avenues.
“I need six miles today,” Lynn mumbles, thinking about the marathon that she is planning when she returns to the States and the missed run yesterday. Stepping on the treadmill, she thinks about how nice it will be to sleep in when she gets back, and to see Jack.
And drive my Jeep, she thinks, watching the first mile pass by.
With six miles and a shower under her belt, Lynn is once again back at the barracks and frustrated that the Internet is still down. With nothing much to do in the barracks, she decides to head into work early. After she finishes dressing, she heads out into the desert as the sun crests the eastern horizon over the gulf just a few miles away. With another omelet filling her up, she walks into work noticing again the lack of personnel around.
It’s early yet though, she thinks, logging onto her workstation.
There are several enlisted and NCO’s in the room with her and they are clustered around a nearby desk shooting the shit. Close enough that she can overhear some of their conversation as she starts through her email.
“Did you hear that Sergeant Vosel was attacked by Private Edwich last night?” one voice from the group says.
“I heard he killed him,” a second voice says.
“I’ve heard of several attacks over in zone two and that some of the medics were attacked,” says yet a third voice.
“I have a friend over in an MP squad that says they had to round up several people who were just running around attacking others at random. I don’t know if I believe it or not, he’s full of shit sometimes,” one of the voices speaks out.
“And what’s up with all of these sick calls?” the first voice asks. “I don’t want to cover yet again.”