She felt a subtle unspoken excitement building within the cabin. An indefinable but palpable sensation throbbed throughout the plane, as if a slow drumbeat were increasing in tempo. Each man knew his job. Each shouted directions and cracked jokes. Erin returned to the bunk and waited until Guns had stowed away the last box lunch.
“Okay, let’s get you checked out,” he said, rising.
The instructor pilot’s seat, called the IP seat, was located directly behind the pilot and copilot’s seats. There was just enough room to wedge it between the two other positions. Erin’s knees would be within inches of the throttles at Ty’s right.
Guns crawled forward and gave the sturdy metal chair a sideways yank. It slid into the center of the deck on a set of specially designed skids so that it was directly behind the throttles between the pilot’s and copilot’s seats. He motioned for her to sit down.
Erin made herself comfortable on the metal seat, while Guns checked out her parachute, which doubled as a cushion for her back. She struggled into the shoulder harness and adjusted the straps around her thighs. Satisfied, Guns gave her a thumbs-up, meaning everything was okay. She was sitting on her pack, which consisted of a radio, survival items and a small inflatable life raft. It also acted as a cushion, and it was attached to her chute so that, if she had to jump, the pack would automatically come, too.
Guns then showed her the seat belt and shoulder straps to be used in heavy turbulence during the flight. “On takeoff, landing and during low-level runs you have to wear the helmet and gloves, and be completely strapped into your chute and seat belt,” he told her. She nodded. “I understand.”
“Great. Now, let’s get you hooked up to the intercom so you can hear all the dirty jokes these guys are trading back and forth.” She put on lightweight earphones with large muff-like cushions. Guns showed her where the radio jack was located and switched it to the “on” position. “If you want to talk to someone, switch to private. That way everybody else can go about their business and they won’t be listening in on your conversations.”
He showed her several other channels, including those that allowed aircraft-to-aircraft or intercabin communication. Another channel broadcast hard-rock music. Guns grinned. “Hey, all the comforts of home.” He laughed. “We can even pick up radio stations while we’re flying at high altitudes. Kinda takes the edge off the boredom when things are quiet,” he explained.
Erin shook her head, feeling as if she had stepped into a whole new world. She understood even better than before what Ty meant when he said the crew was a substitute family to the men. Her spirits lifted simply because she was sharing a part of their world.
She watched Ty working through a thick book along with the co. They were going through a standard pre-flight checklist. She was struck by his expression of intense concentration.
The number of instruments in front of her was mind-boggling. The entire console was a myriad of gauges and dials. Of special interest to her were the small television like screens in front of each pilot’s seat. She watched as Ty turned one on. As it warmed up, a picture congealed, showing the ramp in front of the B-52. Erin was dumbfounded. They actually had a camera that could see beyond the small cockpit windows that embraced them on three sides.
For an hour the crew went through the mandatory pre-flight checklist. Then Erin sensed mounting excitement as the ground crew outside started each of the eight jet engines on the bomber. The plane shivered like a live creature as each of the seventeen-thousand-pound-thrust engines caught and roared to life. A buffeting wind slammed against the aircraft as it sat out on the ramp, adding to the vibration. Finally, all eight engines were operating and Erin replaced her headset with her helmet.
Ty glanced at her briefly. It seemed he missed nothing as his eyes covered her from helmet to feet. “Don’t forget your Nomex gloves,” he warned her.
She nodded, fumbling for the button that had to be pressed in order for him to hear her. “I won’t. Thanks.”
He gave her a thumbs-up sign and went back to work. The radio chatter between the ground crew, the individual stations in the Buff and the tower became intense just before they rolled forward. The bomber trundled heavily off the ramp, heading for an area known as the “hammerhead.” Once they were on the warm-up ramp, which lay directly off the runway, Ty would run up each engine to verify its maximum working order. A vehicle called “foxtrot” would circle the plane, making one last visual inspection of the wing and tail surfaces before the bomber actually took off. The weather had turned ugly, and Erin could see that the rain had reduced visibility.
“Pilot to IP. Ready for takeoff?”
Erin jerked her head up, startled by Ty’s voice. She was the IP! Fumbling for the button, she stammered, “Ready!”
“Get that oxygen mask strapped on,” he commanded.
She snapped the mask across her face and rested her hands tensely in her lap as Ty guided the huge bomber off the hammerhead, aiming the nose down a long strip of runway. Setting the brakes, his fingers closed’ gently over the eight throttles and worked them forward to the thrust gate. The bomber engines rose with a new high-pitched whine and the entire aircraft shivered. After making several last-minute checks with the tower, the co gave Ty a thumbs-up signal.
He released the brakes and the bomber crept forward. Erin had expected to be slammed back in her seat from the thrust. Instead, the plane slowly gathered speed, the growling of the engines deepening as Ty kept his hand on the throttles. The aircraft shuddered each time it hit a depression or bump on the runway. The gray landscape became a blur.
“Seventy knots,” he said. “Ready, ready—now!”
“Twenty seconds,” Nav returned quickly. There was a pregnant pause, tension strung as tight as a taut wire. “Committed,” Ty called, placing both gloved hands on the yoke. The co immediately placed his hands against the throttles, making sure they remained against the thrust gate.
The bomber hurtled down the runway, gathering speed. “Coming up on unstick,” Co announced tensely. “Ready, ready—now!”
Ty pulled back on the yoke. Immediately, the jolting sensations ceased and she realized with an incredible surge of excitement that they were airborne! The Buff nosed up into the thick, swirling clouds.
Soon they broke through the last layer of clouds into a brilliant, blue sky. Guns, who had been sitting in a sling-type seat just behind the IP, crawled around the corner and tapped her arm. “You can take the helmet off now.”
Removing the helmet was like getting rid of an impending headache. She placed it on the bunk and gladly put on the lightweight earphones, hooking back into the intercom. For the next fifteen minutes everyone relaxed. Ty turned, giving her a brief, warming smile.
“What do you think so far?”
Her pulse raced at the intimate glance he shared with her. “It’s breathtaking.”
He winked. “You look like a kid at Christmas.”
Soon they flew out over the Great Lakes where they were met by a KC-135 refueling tanker. Once again Erin had to put on the helmet, mask and gloves. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched Ty deftly maneuver the huge bomber to within thirty feet of the tanker, which flew just above them. The tail boom from the tanker contained a large, retractable hose with a nozzle on the end. Erin’s heart pounded as Ty inched the bomber closer and closer until they were flying directly beneath the tanker. His left hand gripped the flying yoke, his right hand constantly monitoring the throttles as he urged the Buff the last few feet. She saw the pipe extending beyond the upper windows and then heard a distinct clunk.
“Contact!” the co called, relief in his voice.
“Now we’re taking on fuel,” Guns informed her. “Actually, we don’t need it, but in order to keep the pilot’s skills up to standard, we have to refuel on all training missions. Ty will be flying like this for about fifteen minutes.”
Erin looked at Guns in awe. “It seems like such delicate work!”
“It is. There’s o
nly about thirty feet between us and the tanker. That isn’t much when you consider the size of these aircraft.” He grinned. “You ought to be here when the weather’s rough. Man, whoever’s flying comes out of it looking wrecked. The plane has a refueling autopilot,” he said, pointing, “but there’s a lot of physical strength involved in keeping the Buff between that twelve-to sixteen-foot extension on that boom.” He pointed at Ty. “Watch him,” he said. “You’ll see what I mean.”
To Erin, Ty looked like an alien from the very foreign world of combat. Wearing the olive-green camouflage helmet, with the dark visor drawn down across his eyes and the oxygen mask strapped on his face, he was unrecognizable. He was a combat pilot, all business. She heard his clipped tone and watched the sensitive monitoring of his fingers, which rested over all eight throttles. His left hand gripped the yoke solidly and she watched as he gently coaxed the bomber over each small air pocket. They flew an invisible oval-shaped track above the lakes. Erin’s awe increased as the tanker and bomber banked in unison to the left, the bomber maintaining contact with the boom. She shook her head in amazement at the skill these men displayed.
“Pilot to IP,” came Ty’s voice. “We’ll show you an emergency release. We’d use this maneuver if there was the chance of an air accident. Hang on.”
Erin held her breath. Ty pushed the yoke forward and the Buff dropped like a rock. Her stomach rose in her throat as it dived three thousand feet in mere seconds. When Ty leveled off the Buff, Erin saw the tanker above her retracting the boom. She shook her head as Ty glanced over his shoulder. He pushed up his dark visor and unsnapped the oxygen mask from one side of his face. His smile made her feel warm inside. “Well? What did you think of that?”
“It made me feel queasy.” She laughed. “But excited. It was fantastic!”
“Wait till you get down to low level,” the co warned. “We’re anticipating thunderstorms in the area. Might get a little turbulence.”
“Not to worry, you guys,” Guns piped up, coming around to Erin’s right. He opened a bottle and dropped two tablets in her hand. “Dramamine. Take them now so you can enjoy the low level.”
Soon a new mood pervaded the cabin. Erin enjoyed the view as they leveled off at thirty-nine thousand feet. She was aware that Guns was busy behind her, but she didn’t pay much attention. For the next ten minutes she watched and listened to Ty and Barry discussing their intended route. Then she smelled something burning! She pressed her intercom button, a note of panic in her voice.
“What’s burning!”
“My cookies!” Guns yelled, jumping up from his cramped position.
Erin unstrapped herself and twisted around. Guns jerked open a small oven across the bunk and slid out a tray of chocolate chip cookies. The distinct odor of burned cookies wafted through the cabin.
“For God’s sake, Guns, the least you could do is watch them so we could all have some decent cookies to eat,” the EWO chided.
Erin had never laughed so hard. Guns mournfully dumped the burned cookies into a garbage bag. He distributed the edible few among the crew. Ty tapped her knee to get her attention. “We don’t want to give you the idea we work hard all the time.” He grinned broadly, devilry returning to his eyes. The co was flying now, and Ty was able to give her his undivided attention. “With a long mission like this, we usually have maybe a half hour or an hour before we start working.”
“Hard,” Radar added fervently. Ty nodded. “You’ll see.”
Erin couldn’t suppress a laugh. “I didn’t know you had an oven in here. It’s almost like home!” Ty agreed and some of the tenseness left his face. “Everything but the kitchen sink. Guns is our chef on board. He brought along a roll of chocolate chip cookie dough and he’s probably got his Fritos—” “Which everybody steals,” Co interjected. “Yeah, mushrooms like them a lot,” Nav piped in, hinting.
Erin traded broad smiles with Ty, loving the feeling of closeness among the crew. Guns crawled forward and sat back on his heels as he offered them less-burned cookies from his second batch.
“The problem with this little oven,” he complained, “is that it only has one temperature, so you have to watch ’em real close.”
“Or they burn,” Nav teased. Where are my Fritos?”
“You mushrooms are really noisy today,” Guns observed. “Of course, it isn’t every day we get a good-lookin’ lady aboard, either.”
Erin felt a blush staining her cheeks. All too soon the banter ended. The Buff quickly covered the north-to-south expanse of the United States. Ty ordered her to strap in with full gear because they would soon be going low level to act as decoys out in the Gulf. Out the cockpit window she could see the blue ocean coming into view. She strapped into the IP seat and tensed as the intercom talk picked up between Nav, Radar and the pilots.
The Buff had been flying at high altitude, but it descended quickly under Ty’s guidance. By the time they hit the marshlands ten miles inland from the Gulf, they were skimming along at fifteen hundred feet. Radiant heat from the sun poured into the cabin, making everyone uncomfortably warm. The Buff jounced and trembled as it encountered air pockets. Sweat began to trickle down Erin’s body. She dropped the dark green visor over her eyes to keep out the blinding sunlight and watched in silent fascination as the video screens in front of them showed not only the elevation of the land they were skimming over, but also a clear picture of the terrain ahead.
Suddenly, Erin felt transported into another realm, another dimension. She felt as if they were in a genuine combat situation. The men spoke in clipped voices, and the Buff bucked as it left the coast of Florida, heading over the sea leg of the journey. Ty took the bomber down to one thousand feet and flew a large triangular pattern. Suddenly Guns shouted, “I see him! Five miles out off our tail.”
Ty wrenched the yoke to the left, and the Buff sluggishly heeded his order. They banked, the ocean coming closer. He brought the Buff back on an even keel for only a moment before banking again, this time to starboard board. The co held the air map in his lap, calling off coordinates. The intercom became jammed with calls, orders and commands. Ty nosed the Buff down as they roared over the sandy coast, aiming for the marshes. They were now skimming along at five hundred feet. Erin could see every shanty, every wire on the electrical transmission towers, and every bird that was startled out of its nest as they roared overhead. The heat in the cabin rose even higher, and she felt as if she were on the verge of suffocating.
“They got us,” Co said.
“No!” Guns returned sharply. “No way! I had that bogey four miles out.”
“They’re saying they nailed us,” Co repeated.
“Those turkeys have been known to lie, too,” he shot back, irritated.
“Don’t worry, Guns,” Ty soothed, his voice grim. “Next time we’ll know what to expect and give them a run for their money. Everybody hang on to their stations.”
Erin’s heart beat in unison with the throbbing jet engines as Ty brought the Buff around in a wide circle, heading back toward the Gulf. There was a heightened tension palpable in the Buff, a current that lived and breathed through each crewman. The pilots talked in terse tones, their voices filled with new determination.
The second time Ty tested the limits of what he could do with the B-52 to avoid being hit. The fighters lay about five miles off the coast, trying to electronically score missile hits. This time the Buff flew away without a single hit being scored against it.
“I think we just thumbed our nose at them,” Radar drawled.
Erin laughed as the entire crew broke into a cheer. The co gave Ty a thumbs-up signal, as if to say, “Well done.”
“So much for the fighter jocks thinking we’re easy targets,” Co chortled.
“We did well,” Ty commended everyone. “Let’s get back to work. We’ve got more low-level flying to do.”
Erin raised her brows. “More?” she asked, surprised.
“We don’t just hang around in the sky for ten hours wastin
g gas,” Ty told her. “We’ll be doing several more bombing runs, both high and low, before we return to Sawyer. Sit back and relax, darlin’.”
10
From the Gulf they headed northeast across Georgia. At a prearranged coordinate, Ty banked the Buff to the left toward Tennessee. When they had obtained high altitude once again, the entire crew seemed to give a collective sigh of relief. Guns busily heated coffee, which he had carried aboard in a five-gallon dispenser. Erin unstrapped herself and distributed the coffee to the pilots, then to the men on the lower deck.
Ray gave her a broad grin and a thumbs-up when she arrived at the lower deck. He and John were wearing their helmets. Erin pressed the intercom button. “Is this why both you guys have thinning hair?”
John grinned. “Because we wear these helmets all the time?”
She nodded. “Don’t they get awfully heavy?”
“Nah,” came the EWO’s voice over the intercom. “It keeps their swelled heads in line.”
The entire crew broke into snickers over the intercom and Ray turned red. Erin couldn’t help laughing, too. She noticed that it was quite a bit rougher down on this deck. “Don’t you get sick down here? It’s so dark and cramped. How do you take it?”
“Easy,” Guns replied merrily on the intercom. “Mushrooms love it!”
“Stuff it, Guns,” Nav returned.
“Watch it. I got another batch of chocolate chip cookies comin’ up. Hey, I even got a frozen macaroni-and-cheese dinner. Anyone want to trade their box lunch for it?”
The intercom was silent. Erin glanced at Ray. “Where did he get a frozen macaroni dinner?”
“From home. Often when we’re flying long missions we bring TV dinners aboard and cook them in the convection oven.”
“With my help as chef,” Guns reminded them tartly.
Ray hit the intercom. “Yeah. Your dainty, little fingers just burned the hell out of the cookies. Need we say more about why there aren’t going to be any takers on that macaroni dinner?”
“Stuff it, Nav,” Guns retorted crisply.
On Wings of Passion Page 12