Actually, this wasn’t going to be a purely fun flight—there was little money in anyone’s budget these days for taking a $2 million dollar jet just to punch holes in the sky. Samson had called up the Second Bomb Wing, found a young B-52H Stratofortress instructor copilot sitting around with nothing on the schedule, and asked him to give him a proficiency check. Every flying-qualified officer had to log so many hours, so many takeoffs and landings, so many instrument approaches, etc., every quarter, and Samson was woefully behind—this was a good day to get caught up. Scheduling had found them a plane, Samson had found his flight suit and boots in his office closet, and the check ride was on.
Normally rank has its privileges, and check rides for three-star generals are “pencil-whipped” to a great extent—do a couple of landings, maybe shoot a couple of no-brainer ILS approaches, and get signed off in just a few minutes—but the young IP Samson had tapped wasn’t going to “pencil-whip” the commander of the Eighth Air Force, and Samson wouldn’t stand for it even if the IP tried. As with any check ride, the IP started Samson off with a fifty-question emergency-procedures written test, including space to write down all sixty-seven lines of “bold print” emergency procedures for the T-38 Talon jet trainer, the steps that were required to be committed to memory word for word. No one was allowed to step inside any Air Force aircraft without demonstrating thorough knowledge of all aircraft systems. With three amused young officers looking on, the big three-star general bellied up to the flight planning table at base operations and got to work.
Samson had more combat flying time than total time for all three of these young bucks put together, and had forgotten more than they would ever know about flying, but now he had to dig deep and pass a damned written “multiple-guess” test. But without hesitating, Samson got down to it—no compromises, no whining, no shortcuts.
That was the way it had always been for him. Having risen through the ranks from airman basic to three-star general over his thirty-year career, Samson’s entire life had been a series of challenges and successes.
In 1968, Terrill Samson, just seventeen years old, had been a high school dropout looking to beat the draft and avoid going to Vietnam and dying in the fields like many of his Detroit gangbanging friends. His parole officer had told him to enlist or face a certain draft notice the minute he turned eighteen; he’d enlisted in the Air Force simply because the Navy’s recruiting office was in a rival gang’s neighborhood. His mother Melba cried as she signed the enlistment papers for her youngest son, and Terrill was made to promise that he would write. He would never even consider disappointing his mother.
Samson had spent most of the early 1970s carrying buckets of hot tar across griddle-hot construction sites, repairing roads and runways all over southeast Asia in the closing years of the Vietnam War. He’d sent all but five dollars of his monthly military paycheck home to his mother, who would write and ask him if he was safe and if he was making anything of himself. He’d become obsessed with finding opportunities to complete school, volunteer for a job, upgrade his skills, or learn a new specialty, just so he could send his mother a new certificate or document chronicling his accomplishments and proving he wasn’t wasting his time.
Since Terrill had no money to do much socializing, he’d spent a lot of time in the barracks, which made him susceptible to a lot of “line-of-sight career development.” His squadron first sergeant had ordered him to get his high school diploma so he could raise his squadron’s education average; Samson had dutifully complied. Another first sergeant had ordered him to reenlist so his own recruitment figures would look good; Samson had complied again. The tall, good-looking, hardworking, successful black soldier had soon become the Air Force’s “poster boy” as the ideal enlisted man; he’d been promoted to staff sergeant in record time, then received an offer to attend Officer Candidate School at Kelly Field in San Antonio, Texas. Anywhere was better than southeast Asia, he and his mother figured, so he’d accepted. By the end of the Vietnam War, Samson had a bachelor’s degree, a reserve commission, and an undergraduate pilot training school slot. Four years later, as a young captain and B-52 bomber aircraft commander, he had a regular commission and an instructor training slot; twelve years later, he’d earned his first star as the commander of a B-IB Lancer bomber wing.
Now Terrill “Earthmover” Samson, often mentioned in the same breath as Colin Powell and Philip Freeman, commanded Eighth Air Force, in charge of training and equipping all of the Air Force’s heavy and medium bomber units. He was widely regarded as one of the most successful and intelligent officers, of any race or background, ever to wear a uniform.
He proved that fact again by scoring a respectable 90 on the EP test and a 100 on the bold print test, then submitted himself to a complete review of the missed questions by the instructor pilot, undergoing free-fire questioning until his IP was satisfied that Samson really knew the answers. Again, no compromises. Samson ran through a quick review of formation flying procedures with another T-38 crew that would be flying with them that afternoon, and after a formation briefing, a review of the “Notices to Airmen” and the weather, Samson filed a flight plan to the practice area, suited up, and got ready to go.
Snug in the rubber G suit secured around his waist and legs, with his backpack parachute slung over one shoulder, and his helmet and a small canvas bag holding approach plates, charts, and the T-38 checklist on his other, he headed out from base ops toward the flight line, waving off the supervisor of flying, who offered to give him a ride out to the jet—it was too beautiful a day to waste in a smelly old runway car. He chatted with his instructor and the other T-38 crew members on the way out to the ramp, talked about what was happening around the world and around town and around the squadron—it wasn’t often that regular crewdogs got to shoot the shit with a three-star general. No pressure of rank here, no official business, no politicking, no “face time” with the boss—just a bunch of Air Force fliers getting ready to do what they loved doing.
Samson had almost made it to his sleek white jet when another car pulled up alongside. “General...”
“I don’t need a ride, thanks,” Samson said for the sixth time in that short walk.
“Yes, you do, sir,” the driver said. “Flash priority-red message waiting for you at the command post.”
Just like that, Terrill Samson’s idyllic day was over. Messages coming into the Eighth Air Force command center all had priorities attached to them, ranging from “routine” on up. Samson didn’t know what was exactly the highest-priority classification, but the highest he had ever seen was a “flash red”—and that was in 1991, when the world thought the Iraqis had launched chemical weapons at Tel Aviv and the Israelis were getting ready to retaliate with nuclear weapons.
Samson threw his gear into the back of the staff car, shot a salute and a “Sorry, guys” to his crew, and hopped into the front seat. Time to get back to the real world. . . .
“Eighth Air Force, General Samson up.”
“Earthmover, Steve Shaw here,” came the reply. General Steve Shaw, Samson’s boss, was the commander of U.S. Air Force’s Air Combat Command, the man in charge of training and equipping all of the Air Force’s nine hundred bombers, fighters, attack, reconnaissance, and battlefield support aircraft and the 200,000 men and women who operated and maintained them. “Pack your bags, you’re going TDY.”
Samson, sitting at the commander’s desk of the Battle Staff Room at the Eighth Air Force command post, replied immediately, “Yes, sir. I’m ready right now. I’ve got a T-38 warmed up for me, in fact.”
“We’ve got a C-20 with some crews and equipment that’ll pick you up out there at Barksdale for a briefing at Whiteman.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll be ready,” Samson said excitedly. Whiteman Air Force Base, near Knob Noster, Missouri, was the home of the B-2A Spirit stealth bomber. Although they had been used in very minor roles in other conflicts, the B-2A bombers weren’t scheduled to go fully operational until later on in 1997. W
hat in hell was going on? “Anything else you can tell me, sir?”
“The Iranians look like they’re going to try to close off the Persian Gulf,” Shaw said. “NSA wants a special task force to put together a quick-response team to hit targets in Iran if the balloon goes up—and the President wants bombers.”
“Yes, sir,” Samson said. “I’m ready to do it. Who’s heading this task force?”
“I don’t know,” was Shaw’s cryptic response. “Top secret, NSA stuff. You’ll get the initial briefing materials on the plane.”
“I understand. I’m ready to go, sir,” Samson said.
“Good luck, Earthmover,” Shaw said. “Whoever’s leading this task force, I know they’re getting the best in the business. When it’s over, come on out to Langley and let me know how it went.”
“You got it, sir,” Samson replied. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Eighth Air Force, out.”
There were a million things running through Terrill Samson’s mind the second he hung up that phone. He should call his wife, tell her he’d be out of town (shit, he thought, what a freakin’ understatement!); he should notify his vice commander, notify the wing commanders, notify his staff, notify... “Captain Ellis! ”
“Sir? replied the senior controller on duty at the command post.
Samson was heading to the door as he spoke: “Tell General An- dleman I’m on my way to Whiteman and that he’s minding the store. Tell base ops to notify me immediately when the C-20 calls Shreveport Approach inbound for landing. And tell my wife...” He paused, thinking about what he was about to do and what it might mean. “Tell her I’ll talk to her tonight. I will talk to her tonight.”
Sacramento, California
16 APRIL 1997, 2055 HRS. LOCAL
The new waitress quit after only one day—something about how life was too short to work for a “stressed-out bulldog hyped on speed,” or some such comment like that—so the owner of the little tavern on the Sacramento River near Old Sacramento had to fill in waiting tables himself.
It had been many years since he had had to take drink orders. Still dressed in a long-sleeve white shirt, colorful “power tie,” Dockers slacks, and black Reeboks, he zipped from bar to tables to kitchen and back, memorizing drink and appetizer orders while wiping tables and setting up place settings, all the while remembering that he had to smile, say a pleasant word, and stay as cheerful as he could. The original owner had bought the bar after his retirement from the Sacramento Police Department more than fifteen years earlier, and he had never seemed cheerful or pleasant. Despite this—or possibly because of it—McLanahan’s Pub, only seven blocks from police headquarters, had been one of the most popular cop bars in town. Police, sheriff’s deputies, even federal agents working downtown in California’s capital had regularly shuttled between
Gillooly’s, the Pine Cove, and McLanahan’s after duty hours. They’d always gotten good advice from a seasoned veteran sergeant, a lot of stories, and a litde cajoling and friendly criticism—but never cheerfulness.
The new owner of McLanahan’s wasn’t a cop, and although his younger brother was slated to start the police academy soon and all of the police photos and memorabilia were still on the walls of the place, it wasn’t the same popular cop hangout it had been years ago. Because the clientele was more touristy and more sophisticated these days, McLanahan’s had changed as well: they served selections of Napa Valley chardonnays and specialty espresso coffee drinks as well as cold beer and bourbon. Tourists who ordered cafe mochas and veggie appetizers expected cool, suave Tom Cruise-look-alike bartenders and cheerful, trim-and-tan California-cutie servers, not loud, adrenaline-pumped cops lining the bars being served by gruff, overworked owners.
The second-generation owner, Patrick McLanahan, indeed looked as if he might be more at home in a squad car or on motorcycle patrol than in a bar. Patrick was a bit less than average height, but his broad shoulders, thick forearms and neck, and deep chest made him look much shorter. If the blond-haired, blue-eyed man smiled, which was rare these days, one might almost call him disarming, like a big, cuddly teddy bear. But no one remembered the last time their forty-year-old boss had smiled for real, and now it was easy to see a lot of turmoil going on behind those shining blue eyes.
It was Monday night, and the crowd was small and quiet. A few regulars at the bar, a few cops still hanging around (although shift change was a couple of hours ago), a few strangers getting out of the off-and-on drizzle outside. Quite a contrast from table to table. Three guys and a woman, sitting at different tables, reading the paper or watching the news on TV, all drinking coffee; Patrick guessed they were U.S. Marshals or Secret Service, still on duty or on call. A few San Jose Sharks fans were still here, celebrating the hockey team’s latest victory at home over the Stanley Cup champions, the Buffalo Sabres, that they had watched on the big-screen TV here at the bar. One big black guy was by himself in a booth in the corner, still wearing his dark overcoat, watching TV as well—he looked a litde rumpled and overburdened, maybe a mid-level manager for the state who had just had an argument with his wife, or a local businessman worrying about the state of Sacramento’s economy now that all of the area’s military bases had been closed down. He paid for his Samuel Adams with a fifty-dollar bill. His only interaction with Patrick was when he asked him to switch the TV over the bar to CNN, and since there was nothing on ESPN, he complied.
In between serving drinks and wiping tables, Patrick made lots of calls to other employees, asking for help, and after an hour and a half he finally got someone to come in from eleven to closing, so he had a bit more time to circulate and do owner things rather than serve tables. He finally escaped to his office and plopped down in a spare chair beside the woman seated at his desk, who was punching numbers into a computer with the speed and ease of someone very familiar with using a keyboard. “Damn, if I ever see another plate of potato skins or another glass of white wine, it’ll be too soon. My feet are killing me.”
Patrick’s wife, Wendy, turned and smiled at her husband, and Patrick automatically extended his hand to her and they held hands as they talked. Wendy was in her mid-thirties, with short strawberry blond hair and bright green eyes. Bandages still covered the left side of her neck and her right arm, and her breathing was noticeably labored, but her smile could still melt Patrick’s heart like nothing else. Wendy and Patrick were still newlyweds, having married late last year, but an entire lifetime’s worth of events had interrupted their new life together, and they spoke and treated each other as lifelong mates. “Think about that the next time you chop on a server because she’s not going fast enough for your taste, hon,” Wendy said. She stifled another cough, and Patrick winced inside as he heard the delicate but raspy noise.
“How are you doing, sweetheart?” Patrick asked. It was the end of Wendy’s first full week of part-time work doing the books, payroll, and ordering at the tavern. Patrick had seen some of the country’s toughest professional soldiers in sixteen years in the U.S. Air Force, and there was no doubt in his mind that Wendy was stronger and more durable than any of them. Yes, she had lost a lot of weight, and she suffered shortness of breath if she walked around too much, and she required a two-hour nap in the afternoon as well as a full eight hours of sleep at night, but she had been out of the hospital after three weeks and working just a few short months after her horrible aircraft incident.
“Don’t change the subject, hon,” Wendy said with a stern smile. “That was the second waitress that quit this week. We’re hiring only experienced persons, Patrick—they’re not butter-bars. You’ve got to let them make a few touch-and-goes and get some pattern work on their own before you start a full-scale stan-eval ride on them.”
Patrick smiled at all the military aviation jargon. It had been quite some time since he had heard them. “Yes, ma’am,” he responded, snapping a left-handed salute, then kissed her hand. She looked at him skeptically, as if afraid he wasn’t listening to her indirect criticisms. “Hey, I’m jus
t trying to keep things moving, trying to pitch in. It’s easier for me to notice how long an order’s been sitting ready to be picked up if I’m just standing by the door. I’m only trying to help, you know, keep things moving ...”
“The only things that keep moving are the servers,” Wendy said. “Let them do their thing—they feel uncomfortable having the boss hovering nearby all the time. Did you ever work better with that slave driver Colonel Anderson standing over you telling you to... ?” Wendy paused as she saw Patrick’s eyes drift away and begin staring at faces and places long lost but certainly never forgotten. “Sorry, sweetheart,” Wendy said in a soft voice. “I hope it’s not too painful for you when I mention ...”
“No, it’s okay,” Patrick said. “I just hadn’t thought about him, or any of them, for a while.”
“If I may so politely and delicately point out: bullshit,” Wendy said, squeezing his hand. “You think about them all the time. I can see you talking on the phone or sweeping the floor, and all of a sudden you’ll stare off into space, and I know you’re on the deck of the Megafortress or one of those other creations you built, dropping bombs and screaming around at Mach one with your hair on fire.”
“Hey, c’mon, that’s all past me . .. us,” Patrick said. He glanced at his wife reassuringly, then motioned at the computer screen. “Can you give me a list of applicants? I’ll call a few tomorrow morning and find us a replacement.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Wendy said. She turned his face back to face hers. “We can talk about it, you know—the service. I can talk about it.”
“There’s not much to talk about, is there?” Patrick said, a trace of bitterness in his voice. “We’re out, involuntarily retired. Everything we built is gone, everyone we know is gone. We’re two grad-school- plus-educated professionals living in a one-bedroom apartment over a bar. We live off your disability payments, we eat bar food, drink bar drinks, and watch bar TV because we can’t even afford our own TV.” He took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. “Not exactly the kind of life I wanted to make for you, Wendy.”
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