I Want Names ...

Source

The former Secretary of Defense, Matthew Burleson, had been flown down from Maryland early Monday morning. He was being held at DC's Central Detention Facility until such time as the President could make time to interview him. President Nakagawa had made his staff free up time in his schedule for that to happen. Burleson was being brought over to the Eisenhower Executive Office Building (EEOB) as the President and his chief aide and head of his protective detail, Bill Aspinall, headed over there from the Oval Office.

"What sort of evidence do we have that Burleson was conspiring with this so-called Silver Dozen?" the President asked.

Aspinall responded, "We actually have tape recorded conversations of him and the leader of the Dozen, Senator Hawthorne, planning on how to get rid of the President and his immediate successors ..."

"Get rid of? Do we actually have this on tape, the two of them plotting an assassination?" the President exclaimed in horror.

"No Sir, nothing that incriminating, the conversation was more along the lines of what needed to happen in order for Burleson to assume the Presidency. All very theoretical and probably inadmissible in court."

"This will never see the inside of a courtroom, the last thing we want is this being dragged out for months by the goddamned lawyers and the media."

"Sir?" Aspinall stopped in the street outside the EEOB, "You can't be suggesting ..."

"Drum head courts martial? Firing squads at dawn? No Bill, as much as part of me wants to see that, that's the sort of thing they would do, without feeling the least bit guilty. I'm afraid that we need to play by the rules. For now."

Burleson was wearing an orange jump suit and was shackled hand and foot. He was also sporting a large bruise from a fellow prisoner at Central Detention. He had been somewhat shocked at how some of the inmates there thought of him as a traitor. Who knew convicts could also be patriots? He sat up as the door opened.

Bill Aspinall entered and looked around the room, he nodded at the man guarding Burleson and indicated that the man could leave the room. Which he did without hesitation. Aspinall had noticed that a lot of people were very nervous around him. Whether that was due to his position of being to close to the President or something else, he didn't know. But he would run with it. A lot of people were unsettled by the many changes occurring over the past few months, people had died. Most folks didn't wish to join that list.

Burleson looked at Aspinall and asked, "Who the f**k are you?"

Aspinall didn't say a word, he just returned Burleson's stare. Then the President entered.

"Well, Matthew, you've been a bad boy, haven't you? Pretending to be President, plotting with a cabal of senators and representatives to overthrow the government, and we're still wondering if you were complicit with the assassinations of the Vice President and Speaker of the House."

Burleson's eyes went wide, "Assassinations? That plane crash was an accident."

"Yeah, well, we're looking into that."

Aspinall had seen the look on Burleson's face when the President had mentioned "assassinations," there was something to that rumor!

Sergeant Jack Hollister couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched. He was, as all of the field personnel of Deepwater Security LLC were, ex-military, though not American military.

He'd served in the British Army, from which he'd been dishonorably discharged, and then the Colombian Army which he'd left after the cartels had put a price on his head. His Spanish mother had taught him Spanish, which he'd put to good use in the jungles of Colombia, when he spoke Spanish now, he sounded like a native of Colombia, but his methods were even too brutal for the jungle war against the drug cartels.

He'd been a private in the British Army, the 1st Battalion of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers to be exact. He'd been doing very well as a soldier until Yemen, apparently the King didn't approve of executing prisoners. His lieutenant had argued that the men Hollister had killed were caught in civilian clothes and bearing arms. The Crown didn't care.

He had actually made sergeant in the Brigada Anti-Narcoticos¹, his superiors in the brigade hadn't been bothered by his brutal methods, apparently the local drug lord was. His commanders had given him the option of a transfer to another unit, but Hollister knew that the price on his head would follow him throughout Colombia.

Now he had this job, supervising the protection of a group of old men and women who called themselves the "Silver Dozen." He and his men referred to them as the "Dozen Old Farts." Not to their faces though, obviously. The pay was good for a sergeant, the private soldiers hardly made any money, but then again, they also had no expenses. The company provided them with food and shelter in addition to their meager pay. The men didn't seem that bothered by that fact.

From what Hollister was hearing, the new President, this Nakagawa fellow, was dead serious about quashing insurrection and bringing those responsible to justice. While Deepwater had the assets for protecting people against criminals and the like, they were no match for even the poorest of reserve units.

The heaviest weapons they had at the compound were a couple of old M-79 grenade launchers and two M-60 machine guns. With those and thirty men, all trained but none of them up to Hollister's standards, he could bluff people away from the property. But that was about it.

Howard was lying next to Stein, surveying the property with his field glasses. "Less than a platoon I'd bet."

"Agreed. They do patrol, but they're really sloppy. My kids could penetrate that perimeter."

Howard chuckled, "I've seen your kids Avram, they scare me almost as much as you do."

Stein grinned, "Whenever POTUS gives us the green light, I'm betting that we can cut through those guys, take the lodge and everyone in there in less than half an hour."

"Ah, but what do we do with those folks inside? We'd need air to get them out, if that's what the Boss wants. Wasting them onsite would be easy, but hard to explain. The media has been weakened, but the bastards still have their supporters. Supporters the Boss isn't ready to piss off just yet."

"So we wait, huh?"

"Yep."

Nakagawa shook his head as he stood up, "Take him back to Central. Put him in with everyone else."

Burleson looked panicked, "Wait John, I can ..."

Aspinall cuffed Burleson, who yelped in pain.

"That's Mr. President to you, dirtbag ..."

Nakagawa waved a hand at Aspinall, "What can you do, Matthew? We put you in with the regular cons over at Central, I doubt you'll last ten minutes. No muss, no fuss, no costly trial, no reporters to lie for you, it's not exactly legal, sure. But hey, it's tough times right now."

"I can give you Hawthorne and his cronies. I can also give you the source of the money behind them." Burleson was desperate and it showed.

"Ah, you want to make a deal?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure ..." he flinched as Aspinall took a step towards him.

Nakagawa nodded, "Get him some paper and a pen, Bill. As for you," he gestured at Burleson, "start writing. I want every last detail of what you know. I want names, I want dates, I want details. If not, we'll send you back to Central, to await trial. A trial you know you'll never see."

Aspinall threw a yellow legal pad down on the table along with a pen. Burleson looked from one man to the other, then began writing, frantically.

¹ Anti-Narcotics Brigade

Leadership, the way it should be done. (A repost or two)

 

Mrs J's surgery went well, She's still in the hospital but should be released today.  Treatment is a bit more severe than we would have liked, but she's doing ok.  So, I've got a few balls in the air right now, so had to do a repost.  It's one of my favorite and career defining stories.  I like it.

 

So there I was….stationed at Holloman AFB in lovely Alamogordo-by-the-sea NM. I’ve been married about a year now and my personnel officer bride and I have managed to align the moons of Jupiter and gotten assigned together.  She is working at the Consolidated Base Personnel Office (CBPO) and I am assigned to the 435^th Tactical Fighter Training Squadron (TFTS) as an Instructor Pilot (IP) at Lead-in Fighter Training (LIFT). (I’m trying to expand Sarge’s Acronym Locker).The 435^th mission was to teach newly graduated pilots the basics of flying a fighter, and also trained existing fighter pilots in the AT-38B and qualified them as IPs.

I’ve completed instructor training (Ed Rasimus was my IP, story(s) at a later date), and have been working as Squadron Scheduler.  Ed’s description of his Replacement Training Unit (RTU) scheduler, Wimpy, in “When Thunder Rolled” accurately describes a scheduler’s duties.

In any case, I’m building the schedule one day when the Squadron Commander walks in.  He’s one of the VERY few people allowed in the scheduling office when the schedule is being built.  Reduces distractions, eliminates the opportunity for pulling rank, bribery or blackmail to get on the schedule.  But the Squadron Commander is the boss, so he’s allowed.  Anyhow, he walks in and says “Juvat, old boy, I've got a good deal for you!”  Immediately I think “Shields to Maximum!  Ready all phasers and photon torpedos!”  I am attentive to his every mannerism at this point and, based on previous experience, am evaluating various escape routes.

He says “You know we’re getting a new DO (Director of Operations, the person in charge of all the Operational aspects of a Fighter Wing, an O-6, Full Colonel) shortly.  Because we’ll have to work around his schedule, and since you’re the scheduler, I want you to be his Instructor.”

Now, I need to go off track a bit to set the stage for what I envision is an opportunity to commit career suicide.  At this point in time, Tactical Air Command had instituted a policy which, to me, was absolute genius.  They modified the uniform regulation for flight suits so they could include a small patch on the sleeve showing a pilot’s experience level.  One silver colored star for every 500 hours of Fighter Time.  Additionally, a pilot would have a gold colored star if he had even 1 hour of combat time and would add additional gold stars for every 500 hours of combat time. 

There were a lot of Vietnam era pilots in the 435^th at the time.

Ed had at least 3 gold stars ( I think he might have had 4).  Most of the Majors and above had at least 2. 

Since I had a little less than 1000 hours in the F-4, I had one silver star.

The reason I thought this policy was genius, and undoubtedly the reason it was done away with, was you could instantly judge a senior officer’s credibility with a quick glance to his sleeve. Fighter Pilots judge credibility primarily on having employed weapons from a Fighter in anger, multiple times.  So an O-4 with 3 Gold Stars and 6 Silver stars (4000+ hours of flying time and at least 1000+ combat time, AKA Ed) had much more credibility than an O-6 with 2 Silver Stars (our Wing Commander at the time).

About now, Sarge is probably saying “Get ON with it, juvat!  We’re paying by the electron here.”  Back in the squadron, as I have now eliminated all possible escape routes as impossible, I’m thinking about the many different ways I can screw this up.  If he’s a rising star in the, as LL at Virtual Mirage would say, Chair Force, I will probably run afoul of him because, well let’s just say, I’m not very tactful.  If he’s actually a Fighter Pilot (an attitude not an AFSC), what is little ol’ minimally experienced ME gonna teach him?

But, the die is cast; I am to be his IP.  The day of his arrival is now upon us, and I happen to be looking out the window when I see a brand new Corvette sweeping into the parking lot.  By sweeping, I mean driven as a Corvette should be driven, with authority! Out steps the driver who jams his flight cap on his head at the requisite Fighter Pilot angle and with the Fighter Pilot crush at the back. 

Robin Olds, NOT Vegas, but the flight cap is right.

A quick glance at his sleeve, 3 golds, 6 silvers.  He’s been there, done that!

He strides into the squadron like he owns it (which technically he does), and the squadron is called to attention.  Bellows “As you were”.  Walks up to me sticks out his hand and says “Juvat, I’m Vegas” I reply…..”Pleased to meet you, Sir.”  We sit down and I begin the flight briefing for his first ride.

The Instructor Pilot program at LIFT was divided into 2 parts, aircraft qualification and Instructor qualification.  Aircraft qualification was 5 flights, 3 in the front and 2 in the back followed by a check ride.  Successfully completing the check ride meant you were qualified to fly the aircraft.  The front seat rides were for practicing aircraft handling as well as landings.  The back seat was for instruments.  Landing from the back seat was taught after the check ride as part of the instructor qualification.

So, for Vegas’ first ride, we’re going to go out to the area and do a little acro then some stalls and falls, then return to the base and beat up the landing pattern.  We get suited up and walk out to the jet, fire it up and taxi it out.  The AT-38 was a pretty sweet little jet and performed the LIFT role well, but takeoff at Holloman on a hot summer day was often exciting.  Holloman’s field elevation was 4000’, which meant that a lot of runway 22’s 12000’ was needed. 

Vegas gets us airborne and flies the departure like he’s been doing it for years, we get through the advanced handling without me demo’ing any of the maneuvers, the man has golden hands.  Back into the pattern, pitch out, configure, on airspeed in the final turn, touch down on the numbers on speed.  Power back up; go around, another perfect landing and another and another.  Full stop and taxiing back in, I’m trying to figure out what to say in the debrief.  I can’t say “Got nothin’ Boss, great ride!” without appearing like a suck up, but that’s what it was.  However, we get into the debrief and he starts with “Man, I think I was about 2 knots fast on that first touch and go……” and proceeds to conduct his own debrief.

Second ride is in the back seat, he wants to do the takeoff.  Smooth as glass.  We head to Roswell to shoot an approach.  That penetration and approach was pretty tricky, there’s a big descent to make a hard altitude and if you’re not paying attention, your airspeed can get away from you, making the rest of the approach difficult.  More than one pilot has busted a check ride on that approach.  His approach was textbook. 

At one point in my life, I could read this.  Now, pretty much Greek.

We get back to Holloman and I’m looking forward to maybe getting SOME stick time at least with the landing, but NOOOOOOO.  Vegas asks if he can do the landing.  Greases it.  I’m glad I let him land, might have been embarrassing.

So this goes on for rides 3 and 4.  I’m learning more from him than the other way around.  We’re now heading back into the pattern on ride 5, his last ride before the qual check.  I’m very relaxed.  He pitches out, configures, comes around the final turn and we’re over the overrun, but a few knots slow.  I notice the nose start to rise a little sooner than I expected as he begins the flare and the throttles start coming back.  BAM, we smack down on the runway.  Power comes up, we complete the touch and go and get cleared for a closed pattern (pitch up to downwind from the end of the runway rather than go out to the pattern entry point and reenter traffic).  I’m thinking, what the heck was that, a fluke?  Configure, start the final turn, rollout.  And the same thing happens again.  Too slow+Early Flare=Hard Landing.  We've got gas for one more pattern so I can’t demo. If he doesn't land correctly this time….He doesn't.  If anything the full stop was worse.  So much so, that we’re taxiing on the runway longer than usual.  He asks me “How was that?”  

The mind is racing.  Decisions, Decisions…

“Well, sir, I think you need another ride.”  He says, “Can we do that? How?”  I say “I bust you on this one.”

 Silence.

I’m thinking, well at least McDonald’s is hiring.

After clearing the runway, we typically would call back to the squadron with the Aircraft status (Code 1-fully operational, music to Sarge’s ears, rarely happened; Code 2-flyable, but some problems; Code 3- not flyable without repairs) and the mission status (T3C -Student Passed, T2M- mission unsuccessful Maintenance, a needed system was inop, T2W- Unsuccessful Weather and T2S- Unsuccessful Student non-progress). Hard Landings have to be written up, so the jet is Code 2.

“Black Eagle ops, Juvat, Code 2, T2S” 

“Juvat, Black Eagle Ops, say again” 

“Black Eagle ops, Juvat, Code 2, T2 Sierra” 

“Standby Juvat”

“Juvat, Black Eagle One (the commander), say reason for T2S”

Before I can respond, the DO gets on the radio from the front seat and says “If my IP says I busted this ride, I busted this ride!”

I’d follow him through the gates of Hell.

 

Vegas!!! Part Deux

So there I was…an At-38B Instructor Pilot at Holloman Airplane Patch New Mexico.  I’ve been there about two years and my non-flying duty is squadron scheduler.  I have been blessed with a “good deal”, and I have made the most of it.

Current Wing Policy is that all senior Wing Personnel will receive check rides from the Chief of Stan-Eval.  The actual name is Standardization and Evaluation, most of us called them Stan Evil.  Ostensibly the requirement for the Wing King and the like to get their check rides from the Branch Chief was to reduce the likelihood of “undue Command Influence” in passing their check rides.  Works for me!  A Lieutenant Colonel looking for a Squadron to Command and therefore, earn his ticket to Bird Colonel.  No possibility for influence there…..

In any case, those thunderstorms raged far, far above my limited horizon.  My immediate problem was simple.  I had busted the Director of Operations (The number three guy in the Wing, call sign Vegas) on his last ride before his check ride.  Apparently, he had forgotten everything he’d learned in his 4000+ hours of flying about landing a jet, therefore he required another practice ride and his Check Ride was scheduled for tomorrow.

The Chief of Stan-Eval had booked a cruise for the day after and would not be available for the next two weeks. When dealing with the gods, scheduling is important.

I get back into the squadron, and the squadron CO is waiting for me.  Already having  been chastised by Vegas for having questioned my busting him on the ride, he asks me what my intention is.  I look at the schedule and see a three ship of IPs scheduled  for a continuation sortie.  Continuation sorties were missions where the IPs flew front seat and actually got to fly the jet and remain proficient at flying a fighter.  Students may or may not get to tag along in the back seat. Didn’t get a lot of them and these three guys were going to go out and fly a 2 V 1.  This was about as fun and complex a mission as we were allowed.  Highly sought after. Schedulers were able to get IPs to do all sorts of unpleasant things on the promise of a continuation ride.

I walk up to the schedule, draw a line through the 1 in the 2 V 1 and wrote Vegas and my name in.  The IPs would now be going on a 1 V 1.  Vegas and I would get our refly.  I was not popular.

Obviously, this ride was going to be later in the day and at Holloman during the summer, a later sortie made everything just a little bit more difficult.  The pressure altitude was higher, the engines responded different, winds were gusty, dust frequently blew so visibility was worse.  In short, for a person having difficulty landing a jet, flying late in the afternoon could make or break him.

We blast off, go to the area for a few minutes just to get down to landing weight, then return to the pattern for touch and go’s.  I’m a bit tense, but Vegas doesn’t seem to be worried.  He flies down initial, pitches out, configures, starts the turn, rolls out on speed and greases the landing.  Requests closed, granted, rolls out on downwind, configures, starts the turn, rolls out on speed and greases the landing.  Starts the go around, and says, “You want to fly the rest?”

I clearly had passed the test.

It’s now towards the end of the program.  Vegas had flown with other IPs, but I still was his primary IP.  We’re now in the first ride in the Air to Ground phase and Vegas is in the front seat.

 Once he sees the bombing range from the front seat, he will switch to the back seat and “instruct” me in Air to Ground techniques. Truthfully, I’m looking forward to it.  We had just completed Air to Air, and having him in my back seat instructing me (note the lack of quotation marks), had been VERY educational both for my IP skills as well as my actual Fighter Pilot skills.  I was looking forward to experiencing the same in Air to Ground. 

We’ve been to the range, dropped our 6 blue practice bombs and headed home.

We’re coming down initial for runway 16 and I hear the tower clear a flight of 4 F-15s on to runway 25 to hold. 

We pitch out, configure, turn final for a Touch and Go.  Roll out on final, I do a quick look out the nose of the Jet to check lineup, configuration etc.  (I’m still the Aircraft Commander, and IP, it’s my butt if something happens.)  As expected, Vegas is on the numbers.  I glance out the right side of the jet as we cross over the overrun….

Pause for a scenario setting .  Runway 16 and Runway 25 butt up against one another.  The overruns intersect.

The problem will occur in the light gray area at the top center of the photo.

Clearing a flight on to hold, gives that flight permission to do just that.  Taxi into position and sit there until given clearance to do something else.

It does not give you permission to run your engines up to military power in anticipation of takeoff!!

So, enough interlude.  I glance out the right expecting big wide exhaust nozzles  from 8 Pratt and Whitney F-100 Engines .

What I'm expecting when looking at exhaust nozzles

instead, I see little bitty teenie exhaust nozzles spewing exhaust gas across our approach at who knows how fast.

This is what F-15 engines look like in Mil Power and what I'm seeing

I advance the throttles into afterburner, while at the same time calmly communicating to Vegas that I was going to take command of the aircraft and would he please let go of the stick (I slammed the throttles to AB while I screamed “I got it!!”), just as we hit the turbulence.

The jet rolled to the left, and my guardian angel kicked in at that second, because my expected reaction should have been to roll back right.  I didn't, I added right rudder, which yawed the nose away from the ground as well as countered the rolling moment. I have no idea where that reaction, the only and absolute right move, came from.   I’m not sure what the angle of bank was, but I have a very clear picture of looking up at the runway.  The jet begins to yaw the nose above the horizon while rolling back towards level. We exit the turbulence as the aircraft rights itself.  I clean the gear and flaps up and remember the burners.  About this time, Vegas calls from the front seat and says “Well, that was exciting, do you mind if I fly the full stop?”  “No Sir, not at all.”

These guys practice it,  me, not so much!

Full stop, and Vegas asks what happened.  He’d never seen the four ship and all he knew was we had almost lost control.  I explained what had happened.  Debrief began later than usual that day as my student was unavailable.  Evidently, an F-15 flight lead lost his flight lead status.

About 6 months later, I’m now the Wing Scheduler and am up for assignment.  The F-4 is being phased out and F-15s and F-16s are starting to be assigned.  However, the AF still needs folks assigned to F-4Gs as well as F-111s, so the policy is that IPs  up for assignment in the next 6 months will be divided into Top Half/ Bottom Half.  Top Half will get the jet of their dreams; Bottom Half will get needs of the AF.  I’m fairly certain I’m in the Top Half, but, since I also want to be assigned with my wife, also military, and 2 year old son, I’m a bit tense.  Today is the day.  I get the call from my assignment officer.  F-4G to George.  I’m disappointed, but it is with my wife, so that’s the way the ball bounces. 

Vegas also knows this is the day.  He comes walking in to my office and asks what I got.  I tell him, his jaw drops and he says “Captain, can I borrow your desk?”  Dials an number and says (I’ve forgotten the name, so let’s use Stan)”Stan, Vegas here, do you personnel wienies still subscribe to the Top Half/Bottom Half policy?....Well, I’d like to know why Juvat here, my number one guy in this assignment tranche, is getting an F-4G? …..Yeah, I know about his wife…..Look, Colonel, I've got a retention problem here (he did) and if I can’t get my number one guy a new jet, what am I going to tell the rest of the guys to keep them in the AF? Why should they stay? I want him in an Eagle, and I want his wife assigned to the same base.” 

At that instant, it no longer mattered to me what my assignment was, I was reassured there were still people in the AF that cared about their people.  I would stay.

There’s more conversation on the phone, finally Vegas hangs up and says “Juvat, you and Mrs. Juvat are going to Kadena.”

Best assignment of my Air Force Career.

View Halloo!¹

Source

Senator Franklin Hawthorne, the senior senator from Oregon, took another sip of cognac, sighed, then stepped off the porch which surrounded this grand "hunting lodge" which lay in the mountains north of the small town of Frank in West Virginia.

He doubted that it had ever been used for hunting and the sheer size of the place made it much too grand to be called a lodge. No expense had been spared in its construction, it had its own well and was powered by a combination of solar panels and propane-powered electrical generators. The place could easily sleep fifty people and had food storage to feed that many up to a month.

Hawthorne chuckled, he was damned glad that the taxpayers had footed that bill. Stupid bastards had been told it was to finance a light rail system in his own home state and that of California.

He was disgusted by the recent turn of events, the people he had been counting on to help him and his fellow members of the House and Senate stage a coup had all failed rather badly. Especially that idiot of a Secretary of Defense and his fellow idiot Sheppard, over at the FBI. But they had resources which had yet to be revealed. Their odds of success were down, but he still felt that with a bit of luck, they could still pull this off. He fully expected to be sitting in the White House within three months, half a year at the latest.

"What are you so happy about, Franklin?" Congresswoman Estelle Chavez came into the living room from the kitchen, yet another martini in hand.

"Well my dear Congresswoman, I'm thinking of our chances, things may look bleak at the moment, but I still fancy our chances of success."

"How so?"

"Well, Nakagawa is just settling in, the American people have no idea who he is and they are starting to feel the pinch with the economy virtually at a standstill as Wall Street waits to see who's going to come out on top."

"How does that help us?" Chavez demanded in her usual strident manner of speaking. Hawthorne wondered how the people of Newark had ever seen fit to send her to Congress.

"Rumor and innuendo, spread by our many friends in the media. They too have much to lose, after all, they backed the wrong horse. If Nakagawa gets to keep the Presidency, a number of them might actually see the inside of a prison, and not as reporters."

"Or worse."

Hawthorne and Chavez turned to the Senator from Massachusetts who was coming down the stairs from the upstairs sleeping quarters.

"Look, we know Nakagawa is a veteran, he's seen combat. I have no doubt that he'd have no problem ordering people shot. Including us."

Chavez went very pale, "He wouldn't dare."

Hawthorne finished his cognac, "Oh yes, I'm afraid he would."

"What d'ya think the big shots are doing up on the mountain tonight?" Willis Mayfield was getting tired of the routine. Patrolling the nearby forests, watching the roads, guard duty at all hours of the day and night. He'd signed up for the promise of free stuff. Didn't these folks realize "free" meant ya didn't have to work for it?

Curt Bachmann took one last puff of his cigarette then dropped it to the ground, grinding it out with his boot heel. "I dunno, probably eating, drinking, plotting, as long as they pay me and feed me, I don't care."

Both men had had very brief careers in the Army, both had lasted less than two years before being discharged. They had both been hired on with a private security firm who liked the idea that they'd both trained as infantrymen. The security firm didn't care about their behavior in the Army.

"Look sharp you two!"

Both straightened up as their squad leader came up. "Nothin' going on here, Sarge. Anything going down up at the big house? Sure be nice to get outta the boondocks for a change." Mayfield pointed out.

Sergeant Jack Hollister gave Mayfield a look, "Nothing you need to know about, Mayfield. Just keep your eyes and ears open. The Dozen seem a little worried today. Now look sharp!"

As Hollister headed down the trail to the next guard post. Bachmann shook his head, "Big shots are worried? 'Bout what, they gonna run out of caviar or something?"

Mayfield grinned, "Buncha rich Yankees anyhow, who cares?"

Jason Howard set down his field glasses and keyed his microphone, "Did you see that, Avram?"

Avram Stein, nestled behind his Barrett sniper rifle, answered with a simple, "Roger." He then turned to wink at Hector Driscoll, "They aren't exactly the first team over there, are they?"

"Rejects, criminals, and wannabe thugs, that's all Deepwater² can afford." Driscoll scoffed.

He'd done a lot of research on that company. They paid their employees poorly and charged their customers outrageous fees. The bosses lived like kings, the actual guys providing the muscle lived in barracks and were treated like scum. He was surprised anyone would work for them, then again, most of the guys who worked there couldn't get jobs anywhere else.

Howard brought his glasses up again and spoke softly to Chuck Bertram, "No more than thirty security people on site, all of the Dozen are present. Send that by burst transmission on our next contact."

"We could take these guys, Chief, no problem."

"Not without orders Chuck, not without orders."

¹ In fox hunting, a cry meant to indicate that the fox has broken cover and is in the open.

² Fictional private security firm, no relation to any actual entity past or present.

Memories

A U.S. Air Force A-10 Thunderbolt II flies over the U.S. Central Command area of responsibility in support of Operation Freedom's Sentinel, June 29, 2020.
(U.S. Air Force photo by Staff Sgt. Justin Parsons)

Lieutenant Colonel John "Honcho" Nakagawa scanned the barren terrain some 30,000 feet below his aircraft. The old girl had been upgraded to an A-10C but she was getting pretty long in the tooth. His unit, the 190th Fighter Squadron of the Idaho Air National Guard had been scheduled to transition to the F-16 (or Lawn Dart as some wags liked to call it) two years earlier.

Politics, in the form of a U.S. Senator who had flown the bird during her time in the Air Force, had intervened and the 190th, the Skull Bangers, had kept their 'Hogs. Nakagawa didn't mind at all, though when he was tagged to command a Guard squadron he had been a little miffed.

Major General Talbert Jenkins III had turned his office chair to stare at the short, stocky officer of Japanese descent and said, "Look Honcho, you wanted a goddamned A-10 squadron, here you go. You gonna get picky on me now?"

Nakagawa had grinned, he had two years until he had his twenty, what the heck, it was, after all, an A-10 squadron and that had been his dream since he had sworn the oath the first time as a young ROTC student, command a squadron of Warthogs.

"Understood, Sir. If that's all there is, I'll make the best of it."

"You're damned right you will, I expect you to make the 190th the premier 'Hog outfit on the planet. Now get out of my office, Jeannie has your orders."

Nakagawa had saluted and stopped at the general's secretary's desk to collect his orders. As he read through them he couldn't help but smile. Jeannie Hutchinson had spoken up when she saw the grin.

"The general called in a lot of favors to get you that slot, Colonel."

Nakagawa looked puzzled for a moment, then Hutchinson said, "They passed over a Congressman's nephew to get you that slot."

"No shit?"

"Honest truth, Colonel."

That had been nine months ago. Then, when the Houthis in Yemen, backed by Iranian "volunteers" had virtually shut down the Gulf of Aden, the 190th had been called up. John Nakagawa was now commanding a squadron in combat. His wife, Hiroko, a native of Japan, had not been happy. But she understood and said she would pray for him while he was "out there," as she put it.

Nakagawa was fifth generation Japanese American, a Gosei (五世), his grandparents had seen time in a California detention camp when they were children. His great-grandfather had been killed in action in Italy, fighting with the 442nd Regimental Combat team. His family honored their Japanese roots, but they were as American as baseball. (As his uncle liked to say.)

Now they were on a mission to provide close air support to a battalion of Marines who were in deep trouble just to the northeast of Al Habilayn. The Navy was having trouble with both the weather and a group of Iranian patrol boats, so they were temporarily unable to provide support. When CENTCOM had offered Air Force support, the Marine commander on the ground had asked ...

"What kinda birds they fly?"

"The A-10, the Thunderbolt II." the very green, non-rated Air Force lieutenant on the other end of the line had answered.

"Ya mean the f**kin' Warthog, right?"

"Uh, yessir, that's what the ..."

"Send those bastards, Marines love the 'Hog!"

So here they were.

"All Skullbangers, this is Skullbanger One, we're at the IP, go tactical spread. Red Flight, you're in first, then Blue. Green flight will stay up and hit anything you guys miss. Just as briefed."

"Red One, copy."

"Blue One, copy."

As his squadron rolled in, someone on the ground got antsy. Nakagawa saw the lazy looking tracers come arching up from the terrain just to the north of what the Marines were calling the Shell Staton.

"Blue Flight, you've got triple-A at two o'clock low."

"Saw that Honcho. Blue Three, hose that bastard."

Major Lucius Hennesey heard the low moan of an A-10 cannon from off to his right. He looked up in time to see the 'Hog already pulling off the target. WIth his field glasses he could see that the Air Force had hit what appeared to have been a ZSU-23-4 Shilka. At least what was left of it looked like a Shilka. The 30mm cannon on the 'Hog had torn the site up pretty badly, the 500-pound bombs which the A-10 dropped had obliterated whatever hadn't been hit by cannon fire.

"Sir, 'Hogs are coming in to hit the Gomers to our front, gonna be danger close!"

Hennesey looked at his air liaison officer, "Fry the bastards, Horndog, we'll keep our heads down!"

When the Skull Bangers had recovered at their makeshift base outside of Kadamat Al Awdhali, their commander had been very pleased. A couple of his jets had been hit by small arms fire, but nothing more than some minor sheet metal work would be required.¹ All his folks had made it home and from what the Marines on the ground had said, the Gomers had had their asses kicked.

Nakagawa smiled as he taxied in, his first combat mission as a squadron commander had gone off without a hitch. As his jet rolled into its revetment, a sudden fire engulfed the nose of his aircraft. What the ...

Nakagawa began to scream as he felt his feet start to burn ...

"John, John!" Hiroko was shaking her husband, "You're having that dream again. Wake up, wake up!"

She looked up as Bill Aspinall and another agent stepped in to the room, weapons drawn. She shook her head vehemently at Aspinall, then, with a grimace, slapped her husband hard and shouted, "Okiro!².

Nakagawa felt the sharp pain on the side of his face, why did his crew chief slap him? Then slowly, as if surfacing from very deep water, he began to get his wits about him.

"Omae³, I'm here, I'm okay," he muttered.

He sat up, his pajamas were soaked with sweat. As he looked around the room, he muttered to his wife, in Japanese, that he was fine. To Bill Aspinall he said ...

"Any news?"

"Yes Sir, it's been confirmed that units of the Peoples Liberation Army Navy have been spotted in the Indian Ocean. The Indian Navy is shadowing them, but as they are in international waters, that's the best they can do."

"Have we made contact with anyone in Beijing?"

"No Sir, rioting continues in some sections of the city, the PLA is getting things under control but so far, no one is really in charge in the PRC."

"Damn it."

Nakagawa realized that any orders issued prior to the turmoil surrounding the loss of Fujian  and the subsequent unrest throughout China would remain in force. The commander of that PLAN task force would remain on mission until ordered back.

Thing is, there was no one to do that.

"What assets do we have in the area?"

"Two attack boats, Mr. President." His naval aide, LCDR Josh Higgins had come into the room carrying a message board, which he consulted. "Barb and Silversides."

Looking again, at a separate sheet on his clipboard, he continued, "Vermont and Colorado are supporting units outside the Gulf, we can have them set up a patrol line to intercept, if necessary."

"Have the Navy issue the appropriate orders." As he said that, his wife handed him a cup of his favorite tea. He gave her a warm smile and a nod.

"Josh, get the Joint Chiefs together at the Pentagon, set up a secure Zoom call, ASAP."

"Aye, Aye, Mr. President."

Turning to Aspinall as he sipped his tea, "Anything on the schedule today, Bill?"

"I already cleared that, Sir. By the way, the guy you tapped to lead the new FBI, the Maryland cop ..."

"Juan Ramirez, what about him?"

"He's coming to DC today, if you've got time ..."

"Whenever he gets in bring him to me. We need to get a jump on domestic issues immediately. Senate confirm him yet?"

"No Sir."

"Fire a rocket up their asses, I need that done today."

Aspinall grinned, "Will do, Sir."

Nakagawa finished his tea then set it down, "Guess I better get dressed, going to be a long day I think."

His wife brought his clothes in, smiling at him.

He smiled back, "Omae, I should make you my Chief of Staff. God, how I love you."

She swatted his butt, "Go to work, husband-san, I'll see to breakfast."

¹ As any aircraft maintenance man can tell you, what might look like simple holes in a wing or fuselage could involve a lot of work under that sheet metal. No doubt the maintenance pukes would be pulling long hours to get all of Nakagawa's aircraft ready for the morning.

² Okiro (起きろ), wake up.

³ Omae (お前) literally means "you," a term of endearment a man would use for his wife. A wife would say anata (あなた) to her husband. Older Japanese use these terms, apparently the young nowadays don't.