Dark Wing

by Richard Herman

  Matt Pontowski was part of the tradition that stretched back through Mad Mike Martin, Jack Locke, and Muddy Waters. Like them, he was a professional soldier who had made the commitment to serve, fight, and protect. The burden of command had added to that commitment. Now his decisions determined who would live and die, and he had to learn how to live with himself.

  With the milicrats held at bay, Pontowski actually found time two days later to fly. What a refreshing idea, he thought, doing what the Air Force pays me to do. He looked at the flying schedule and saw that Skeeter Ashton was scheduled to lead a flight of three to Cannon Range that afternoon. He wandered down the hall to Operations to see if they could come up with a jet and turn Ashton’s flight into a four-ship. He wanted to see for himself how the young woman was doing.

  He found Hester standing alone behind the scheduling counter. “Can you get me into Ashton’s flight?” he asked. Hester called Maintenance to see if a fourth Warthog was available. “It doesn’t look promising, Boss,” he said. “They’re prepping the birds for the deployment and we’ve been short one airframe ever since Leonard pranged on the range. They’ll try to get a jet ready.”

  “I want to fly with Skeeter and see how she’s doing.”

  “Skeeter’s got a ways to go,” Hester said.

  Pontowski heard a tone in Hester’s voice he had not heard before. His inner alarm bell warned him to proceed with caution. “How does she compare with other lieutenants with the same amount of flying experience?” It was a fair question and he expected an honest answer.

  Hester hedged his answer. “I’d say about average, maybe slightly above.” He sat down and leaned back in the chair. “Colonel, that’s a goddamned lie. She’s good.” Pontowski waited for an explanation. “I’ve got a problem with women flying jets,” Hester continued, “which, I suppose, is all due to my macho male fighter jock ego getting in the way.”

  The tone of his voice was light and bantering but his expression betrayed how seriously he took the matter. “Personally, I’m not convinced that women have what it takes to fly fighters. But hell, 99 percent of the male pilots I know haven’t got what it takes either. Now, suddenly, every female who feels the urge claims she should have a shot at flying a fighter just because she’s a woman. Screw that noise. Let them scramble for it the way you and I did. They ain’t going to be worth shit in the air if they can’t fight their way into the cockpit to begin with.”

  “Things change,” Pontowski said. “I guess our job these days is to see that qualified women get a chance to join the scramble.” There was no response. “One question,” Pontowski continued. “I saw Ashton’s personnel folder. You endorsed her application to join the squadron. Why did you do that feeling the way you do?”

  “Ripper.”

  Pontowski raised an eyebrow. “What did she do? Threaten you with a sexual discrimination complaint?”

  A pained look crossed Hester’s face. “She beat me at arm wrestling.”

  “She what?” Pontowski couldn’t believe it. Hester was a husky, well-conditioned forty-five-year-old man and outweighed Waters by at least fifty pounds.

  “We had a knock-down, drag-out, take-no-prisoners argument over Ashton. I told her women don’t have the right attitude to engage in combat and in most cases aren’t strong enough. So Waters challenged me to an arm-wrestling match right then and there. There’s a trick to it and she’s stronger than she looks. No sooner did we get to it than she reached under the table and grabbed my balls. The old nomex flying suit may be great protection against fires, but it ain’t worth shit against long fingernails. I came out of that chair like I had a rocket strapped to my ass and I was going for a low orbit. Anyway, she slammed my hand to the table and told me to endorse Skeeter’s application.”

  “I can see the look on your face now. And the 303rd gets stuck with a woman pilot because Waters cheats at arm wrestling.”

  Hester stared at him. “There are times when cheating counts in this business.” He was deadly serious.

  “Thanks for telling me that,” Pontowski shot back. “You fuckin’ A think I like it?” Hester groaned.

  “You got her, you give her a fair break.”

  “Why me?” Hester desperately wanted to pass the buck. “Because that’s life,” Pontowski said. “Cope.” The phone

  rang. It was Maintenance. They had a plane ready for

  Pontowski to fly. “Maintenance did good,” he allowed. “All the time,” Hester replied.

  The mission to Cannon Range was faultless and Ashton knew it. When she finished the debrief with the traditional “That’s all I have,” Pontowski knew he had a fighter pilot who happened to be a woman. He walked back to his office, not sure that he liked the idea.

  Waters was waiting for him. She motioned to four sergeants sitting in his office. “Sir, the first response to the ad on the electronic billboard.” The four men were wellturned-out in the new class A blues, polished shoes, and fresh haircuts. He judged them all to be in their late thirties to early forties. “They’re the Range Rats from Cannon,” she explained, leaving them alone.

  Pontowski turned to the NCOs. “Range Rats?” he asked.

  One of the men, a master sergeant, stood up. He was lean, emaciated looking, and over six feet tall. “Sir, I’m Ray Byers, the NCOIC of the range, this is Tech Sergeant ‘Little Juan’ Alvarez.” All six-foot-six of the dark-complected and good-looking Alvarez stood up. He was the tallest Mexican-American Pontowski had met. “This is Tech Sergeant ‘Big John’ Washington,” Byers said. Washington was an African-American built like a fireplug and about the same height. “And this is Staff Sergeant Larry Tanaka.” Tanaka was a Japanese-American of average height and build.

  Ray Byers, Pontowski thought. Should I know that name? “What do Range Rats do?” he asked.

  “Sir,” Byers explained, “we scrounge up targets for the range and keep it operational. We think we got one of the most realistic target ranges in the United States.” He stressed the “u” in “united” and spoke with a southern accent. His voice was hoarse and gravelly, the throat of an alcoholic damaged by years of hard drinking.

  Pontowski agreed with his judgment about the range. It was a well-maintained facility and the surface-to-air missile sites, aircraft, tanks, and trucks scattered around the range were extremely realistic. “Where do you come up with all those targets?” he asked. “They look like the real McCoy from the air.”

  “That’s because they are,” Byers answered. He didn’t say where they got them. It was an answer Pontowski wouldn’t like.

  “In all honesty,” Pontowski hedged, “I don’t know why you’re here. If you want to volunteer, you should be talking to Maintenance.”

  A sardonic grin split Byer’s face. “They wouldn’t know what to do with us, sir.”

  “What would I do with you?” Pontowski asked.

  “We’re procurement specialists,” Larry Tanaka said. “You need it, we’ll get it,” Big John Washington added. Little Juan Alvarez nodded in agreement.

  “Sir,” Byers said, “just give us a chance to prove what we can do.” He was pleading.

  “We are short one A-10,” Pontowski joked.

  “With or without LASTE?” Byers asked. “And when do you want it?” He was dead serious.

  Pontowski couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “With LASTE and we need it ASAP.”143

  “You got it, sir,” Byers assured him. The four men saluted as one and marched out of his office.

  Pontowski followed them out. “This is turning into United Nations day at the funny farm,” he muttered to Waters. “Byers, Ray Byers. Should I know that name?”

  “He was Jack Locke’s crew chief during Operation Warlord,” Waters told him.

  “I’ll be damned,” Pontowski groaned. “That Byers.” Ray Byers had been in the backseat of Locke’s F-15E when Locke had shot down five Iranian fighters. Byers had taken a terrible beating in the backseat of the F-15 but had held true to his contract with the pilot a
nd constantly checked their six o’clock position. Twice he had saved them from being shot down, and somehow, he had been able to lock a Maverick antitank missile onto a MiG. The missile had tracked and speared the fighter, consuming it in a fiery blast. Locke’s request that Byers be given equal credit for the kills had been disapproved at higher headquarters. But unofficially, and more important, by legend, he was recognized as an ace.

  Outside, in the hall, Byers held a quick staff meeting. It was not the formal, ordered, agenda-laden meeting favored by the Air Force but a highly focused and efficient discussion of how to get something done. Big John Washington made a phone call and then rejoined them, forcing a bored expression across his broad face. “No big deal,” he told them. “We got a Warthog with LASTE. My buddy at the boneyard came through.” The boneyard was the unofficial name for the Air Force Material Command’s Aerospace Maintenance and Regeneration Center at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base at Tucson, Arizona. “He says they’re swamped with A-10s and he can diddle the paperwork so we can have one for ground training and display. But we got to take good care of it and give it back—eventually. Getting it to Whiteman is the problem.”

  “What we need is an A-10 pilot,” Little Juan Alvarez said.

  Larry Tanaka decided to take the direct approach. “My cousin works at AFMPC. I’ll give her a phone call.” Twenty minutes later they received a fax from the Air Force Military Personnel Center. They had the pilot they wanted—one Captain Dwight “Maggot” Stuart.

  Another phone call and Byers found himself talking to a drunken voice on the other end. The voice belonged to an extremely average-looking man: normal height, dark brown hair, and blue eyes. Three things made Dwight “Maggot” Stuart different: lightning-quick reflexes, eyeballs with a wide-angle field of view that covered 240 degrees while he was looking straight ahead, and an attitude. “I understand you’re separating from the Air Force,” Byers said.

  “That’s right,” Maggot slurred back. “The fuckin’ Air Farce is kicking me out. The peace dividend strikes again.”

  “Did you see the ad on the electronic billboard?” Byers asked. “The 303rd is looking for A-10 pilots to volunteer for a special mission.”

  “I’ve been on terminal leave and just heard about it. Too late now. Half the fuckin’ Warthog drivers in the fuckin’ Air Farce are looking for flyin’ jobs and are lined up in front of me.” Maggot was decidedly drunk. It helped to control the bitterness he felt at being forced out of the service. “Sheeit,” he grumbled, drawing the obscenity out into two syllables, “nobody gives a damn if you can fly and fight anymore.”

  “If you help us, we can help you get on with the 303rd,” Byers said.

  “Who do you want me to kill?” Maggot suddenly sounded interested.

  “Nothing that drastic,” Byers replied. “Just fly a Warthog to Whiteman for us.”

  Late Monday afternoon, a single A-10 landed at Whiteman Air Force Base.

  Pontowski was not surprised when the four Range Rats and Maggot appeared in his office early Tuesday morning. Maintenance had already called about the new Warthog. Waters ushered them into his office and stood in the doorway. Pontowski gave her his “go away” look but she refused to move. “I want to see this one, sir,” she said. Pontowski relented.

  “The documentation and maintenance records,” Byers said, “for one Warthog with LASTE.” He laid a stack of paperwork on Pontowski’s desk. “You endorse the transfer/acceptance from on top and it’s all yours.” Byers pointed to Maggot. “There is one glitch, sir. He comes with it.”

  Pontowski surveyed the medals on Maggot’s uniform. The pilot had flown his share of combat and had been wounded. “Desert Storm?”

  “Yes sir,” Maggot replied.

  “How many hours in the Warthog?”

  “Over two thousand.”

  Pontowski was impressed. “Go talk to my ops officer, Major Hester. Tell him I sent you.” Maggot saluted and bolted out of the office. Pontowski turned and stared at the four NCOs. “I suppose you’re going to hold my feet to the fire on this one,” he said.

  They nodded as one. “You want another Warthog, sir?” Byers asked.

  “No way,” Pontowski shot back. He decided it was time to even the score. “If you work for me, you’re the Junkyard Dogs and the captain here”—he pointed to Waters—”is your master. She whistles, you jump and start barking. Your job is emergency requisition. Get over to Maintenance and find out what they need.” He watched them file out of his office. “Why do I think I’m going to regret this?” he muttered, loud enough for them to hear.

  Monday, May 13

  Nanning, China

  The nine young captains slumped with fatigue as they huddled around the charcoal fire for warmth. A flickering light cast shadows across their tense faces as Kamigami paced the large room on the second floor of his house in Nanning. He knew these nine men, the commanding officers of his nine infantry companies, were tired after two months of hard training. But were they ready for the ultimate proving ground? A successful combat operation would send morale through the roof and draw in more recruits for Zou’s army.

  “You have learned very fast,” he told them in Cantonese, “and you have trained your men well. They are ready for the next challenge.” The young student Zou had found to serve as a translator rattled off his words in putonghua, the common spoken tongue. The boy ended by translating into English. The captains laughed, breaking the tension.

  How well do I know them after two months? Kamigami wondered. The nine men in the room were all veterans of the battle of Wuzhou. Unfortunately, Zou’s best officers had been killed in that battle. Yet during the last few weeks, each one of the captains had proved that he could lead, motivate, and train the soldiers under his command. But the same question remained—were they ready for combat? He wished Jin Chu would return so he could ask her.

  He pointed to a map. “The PLA is fanning out from Wuzhou,” he told them. “They are like a swarm of locusts devouring the countryside and have moved eighty kilometers up the Pearl River. Many troops, perhaps ten thousand, have occupied the town of Pingnan.” He heard a slight sucking of breath from the nine young men. They understood the threat that was moving ever closer to them.

  Kamigami led them to the crude sand table where a model of a village had been constructed. He pointed to the model as the boy translated. “The PLA is still moving west and wants to control all shipping on the Pearl River. Five hundred troops have been sent here as a forward outpost, four kilometers from Pingnan. That is four kilometers closer to us. Because they are so close to Pingnan, they think they are safe.” He paused for effect. “But we are going to cut them off and kill them.” He studied the men’s faces and knew they wanted it.

  “Tomorrow, we begin training for the attack. Stay with your men tonight. Make sure they are all fed and have a warm place to sleep. I will demand much of you in the next few days and you will demand the same of them.”

  Kamigami sat silently as the men left. Nine captains, he thought, each with fewer than fifty men in his company. My so-called First Regiment. How in the world can I build an army from such a small beginning? Can I do it? Jin Chu, where are you?

  “I am here,” Jin Chu said, answering his thoughts. Kamigami turned and cast his worries into the fire. Jin Chu was standing in the doorway, still bundled up against the cold. She walked across the room and touched his face. “Do not drown in the worries of the moment,” she told him. Her voice was tired and she drooped with fatigue from her journey. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and shield her from the cares of the world. But he fought off the urge, knowing it would embarrass her. “Come,” she whispered in his ear. “I have missed the warmth of your bed.” She followed him demurely into their bedroom.

  As always, Jin Chu lay on top of him after they had made love. Her cheek was against his chest and she held him inside her as the warmth of her bare body enveloped him. “I saw many things,” she said, wanting to talk before they slept. “I reached Canto
n. The PLA is moving many men and supplies upriver.”

  “Are they staying to the rivers?” he asked.

  “I traveled only on the Pearl River and saw soldiers there,” she answered. “But I talked to many people and they told me that soldiers are moving northward up the Lijiang River toward Guilin.”

  The PLA was moving exactly as Kamigami expected. The westward thrust up the Pearl River was pointed at them. The northward drive up the Lijiang would secure the PLA’s right flank and pacify the northern half of Guangxi Province. How far up the Lijiang have they moved in force? he wondered. How much are they moving on the roads and railroads? Damn, Zou needs better intelligence.

  “The PLA is doing much building at Pingnan,” Jin Chu said. Kamigami gave a mental jerk. The outpost he was planning to attack was four kilometers from Pingnan. “There are many soldiers at Pingnan,” she said, “and many, many officers. But very few go beyond Pingnan.”

  “It all makes sense,” Kamigami said. He rubbed her back the way she liked. He decided they would talk more in the morning and he would tell her of the attack he was planning on the outpost near Pingnan. Jin Chu moved, making herself comfortable but still holding him inside her, not releasing him. Slowly, he felt his penis harden and her muscles relax. “You must create the spirit of the nine,” she told him. Since they were speaking Cantonese, he wasn’t sure if she meant “the spirit of the nine” or “the will of the nine.” But she was obviously referring to his company commanders.

  “The spirit of the nine?” he repeated, not understanding. “I have been to the village near Pingnan you want to attack,” she said, not answering him.

  The wrong parts of his body stiffened. How did she know I was thinking of attacking that village? he wondered. She must have seen the sand table and recognized the model, he rationalized.