Authors: T. E. Cruise
“In Korea we controlled the sky almost from the beginning,”
Greene now said as up on the screen the footage and photos unspooled, detailing the history to date of the United States’
experience with jet-age air combat.
“Yeah, we had it our way in Korea, because we relied on seasoned World War Two fighter jocks to do the job. In Vietnam, it
was a different story. Most of our pilots were not combat tested. What they knew about ACM they learned from books, and because
of that, despite our superior warbirds, we got our ears pinned back by hard-as-nails Commie pilots, many of them flying MiGs
that were not much more sophisticated than the ones that our fighter-pilot forefathers had so efficiently sent plunging into
the Yalu.”
Greene let the doleful freeze-frame image of a broken-winged F-4 Phantom plummeting to the ground trailing smoke and flames
burn itself into his audience.
“In Vietnam, the Air Force and Navy Aviation played a game of catch-up ball, and we came out of it by the skin of our teeth,
but we didn’t win.”
Greene shook his head. “
I was there. Take it from me. We didn’t win. But as the war wound down, we were getting better. Or at least the Navy was,
thanks to an ACM training program called Top Gun.”
Greene paused to let the hostile murmurings rippling through the audience run their course at his mention of Top Gun. The
people in this auditorium were among the best frontline personnel the Air Force had; otherwise, they wouldn’t have made the
cut to be here in the first place. They were all proud blue suiters who didn’t much cotton to being reminded that these days
the Air Force had to share ownership of the sky with the United States Navy.
“Top Gun works so well for the Navy in part because it gives the squid fighter jocks a real-time taste of ACM flying against
some of the best instructors the Navy has to offer. The Fighter Weapons School here at Ryder is a close equivalent to Top
Gun. For three weeks the fighter jocks among you will be receiving a graduate course in advanced fighter tactics by FWS instructors,
while the rest of you will receive similar advanced combat training in your particular specializations.”
The screen, which had been showing candid photos of visiting players receiving their advanced instruction, now went to silver
and began to rise. At the same time, the stage lights came on, revealing the the Attacker squadron seated in front of the
huge rendition of their emblem.
“After three weeks, school will be over,”
Greene said.
“And war will begin. You will belong to us. The Attackers
…”
Narrow focus spotlights now illuminated the photographic murals lining the auditorium’s walls. Greene watched as the audience
swiveled to study the photos of the Attacker squadron’s F-5E II jet fighters wearing Warsaw Pact paint locked onto the tails
of various visiting-player aircraft.
“Three weeks from today. Red Sky will begin. You will be subjected to five days of air war conducted according to a specific
scenario written by Red Sky intelligence people. The scenario will detail the outbreak of hostilities between a Communist
nation on the western side of the Ryder combat ranges, and the United States, who will invade from the east.”
Greene’s outstretched arm encompassed the audience.
“As the Blue, United States team, your surveillance operations will attempt to send back intelligence about the Red team,
your enemy. Your AWACS will attempt to locate his Combat Air Patrols and guide you to them. Your Wild Weasels will attempt
to pinpoint and neutralize his AAA and SAM sites. Your Mud Movers and Warthogs will attempt to disrupt his front line and
suppress his ground defenses and mechanized artillery. Your bombers will attempt to decimate his military-industrial complexes.
Your transports and refueling tankers will attempt to run his gauntlet to resupply and refuel your air-strike forces.”
Greene offered his audience an exaggerated, wolfish smile.
“And your fighters will attempt to wrest control of Redland’s sky away from us, the Attackers, who have been trained and equipped
to fly and fight like Russians. Five times a year, we declare war on those who would fly against us in Red Sky, the world’s
most realistic and complex aerial-combat exercise. We fly F-5E Tiger IIs equipped and painted to mimic Fishbeds and Floggers.
You may think our little F-5 Scooters are inferior airplanes to your own, but we Attackers love them. We call our planes F-5
‘MiGs.’ We call them F-5 ‘Humiliators,’ because we and our planes are honed razor sharp, and we enjoy making fools out of
you green young men who think you’re something special when you’re strapped into your state-of-the-art hardware. Don’t think
of the Attackers as instructors, because we don’t fly to teach you anything.”
Greene paused, staring down at the auditorium full of uplifted faces.
“We fly to kill you.”
The audience was crypt silent. Greene could feel hundreds of pairs of angry eyes upon him. He could sense the players’ massed
outrage at his taunts. They had become a lynch mob, out for his blood.
Good.
Greene thought. He
wanted
to shake his audience’s composure. To get them riled up and get their juices flowing; to get them to begin to approach a
state of fevered mental pitch approximating what they might emotionally experience in the tense weeks, days, and hours leading
up to a real war.
A lot of these pilots arrived at Ryder thinking that Red Sky was going to be just another cut-and-dried, fly-aroundthe-flagpole
war game of the sort they might have experienced while training at their own bases, but nothing could be further from the
truth. For one thing, Red Sky was big. The scenario took place over millions of acres of desert, with the various Ryder ranges
tricked up to resemble different aspects of Red-land, so that just knowing where the hell you were and how far it was to a
place of safety was a challenge.
For another, thing, Red Sky was edge of the envelope when it came to EBS. Sure, the Exterior Battlefield Simulations included
the run-of-the-mill plywood and plastic tanks, and scrap-wood buildings for the players to bomb and shoot up, but Red Sky
went far beyond the usual “Hogan’s Alley” type knock-’em-down cardboard target setups in terms of combat realism, and in terms
of keeping score. Thanks to a network of grid sensors spread around the desert ranges, transmitters placed on the airplanes,
microwave relay stations, and powerful computers, every Red Sky mix-up could be displayed in real time to spectators back
at Nellis, who viewed the computer-generated action as it occurred on the auditorium’s multiscreens. Each evening, highlights
of the day’s battles were shown for the players in the auditorium, and then replayed, for the benefit of the specific players
involved, in the smaller briefing rooms.
Most important for the players, Red Sky was complex. It might seem obvious to say that, but Red Sky’s capacity to submerge
participants in the sort of confusing electronic and sensory overload that had been experienced by combat fliers in Vietnam
was in many ways the exercise’s outstanding value. Once a pilot got a taste of his electronic gear and his radio screaming
at him, mixed with the sensation of having a real, live bogie on his six o’clock, and maybe a simulated smoky SAM twisting
up at him from the ground, that young man would begin to have an idea of what modern air war was like inside a cockpit, and
how his own confusion might destroy him quicker than any MiG.
Best of all, Greene thought, in
this
war, despite all the simulated realism and electronic enhancements, the only wounds the visiting players might suffer would
be to their pride. Sure, there was always the potential for tragic accidents when lots of overeager fighter jocks went streaking
around a few hundred feet above the desert at six hundred plus miles an hour; being a fighter jock was not a low-risk occupation.
By and large, however, these young men would live to learn from their mistakes, and, it was hoped, never make them again should
they be confronted with a real war.
Greene moved to the conclusion of his presentation:
“This upcoming Red Flag exercise will be conducted during a tense international climate in the world. In Africa, there’s war
raging in Zaire between that ruling government and Cuban-backed rebels. In the Mideast. Iran endures bloody rioting between
the Shah’s backers and Moslem fundamentalists. In Central America, Nicaragua suffers as the Samoza government is rocked by
Communist rebels. The Red Sky scenario being scripted for you might well have been torn from today’s headlines.
“On behalf of the Attackers squadron, I urge you to study hard these next three weeks.”
Greene’s eyes swept the auditorium. “
Learn all you can, because when you confront us you’re going to need it.”
“Nice performance, Robbie,” Buck said, falling into step with Greene backstage. “Reckon there’ll be a few extra pair of undies
going to the laundry this evening.”
“Like I said, scaring the shit out of’em is my job,” Greene said. He squinted as they left the cool darkness of the auditorium
through the stage door, stepping out into the bright, hot, Nevada day.
“If that’s your job, then you’re overachieving,” Buck chided good-naturedly.
“No way,” Greene protested as he dug his gold-rimmed Ray-Bans out of his breast pocket. “It’s the Attackers’ role to play
the villain, and we’re method actors.”
They cut across the sweltering parking lot toward Greene’s car. It was a fire-engine-red (naturally) Porsche 911 Targa he’d
bought with some of the money that Grandpa Herman had left him.
“You know, the bigger they come the harder they fall,” Buck murmured under his breath.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you came on a lot stronger than usual back there with all that ‘we fly to kill you’ crap.”
“Well, maybe I’m feeling
extra
frisky,” Greene replied evasively. “Maybe I’m intending to run my squadron
extra
hard on this particular exercise. Make life
extra
miserable for this bunch of players.”
“Why?” Buck eyed him speculatively. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk that way before.…”
“What’s with these questions?” Greene countered. “Why shouldn’t I put one hundred and one percent into my job?”
They’d reached the Porsche. Buck settled into the passenger’s bucket seat as Greene swung himself behind the wheel, started
her up, put her in gear, and began driving down the base’s main drag, Thunder Alley. It was a half-mile to Red Square, the
Attacker squadron’s operations building.
“You know, Buck… I’ve been thinking,” Greene mused. “I love what I do. and like every one of the pilots in my squadron I fought
tooth and nail to get this assignment. I get to fly as much ACM as I can handle, and that’s the best kind of flying there
is.” He nodded firmly. “I mean, it’s a dream come true for me….” He trailed off.
“But…,” Buck coaxed. He had his hat off and was holding it in his lap to keep it from blowing away. The few sparse hairs on
his head were flapping like signal flags in the breeze.
Greene said, “But all that doesn’t change the fact that, bottom line, the elite, ferocious Attackers are basically clay pigeons—hell,
tackling dummies—for the visiting players.” He glanced inquiringly at Buck. “Maybe we ought to be refining our tactics to
give them even
more
of a run for their money? I mean, I hate the way some of these visiting players get off so easy.”
“Is that
really
what’s bothering you?” Buck coaxed. “Is it that some of the players get off easy, or is it one player
in particular
you’re concerned about?
Greene saw that his friend was watching him closely. It was no secret that Buck was an extremely solicitous dude, kind of
the father confessor for the squadron, but what accounted for that expression of concern mixed with accusation that was presently
radiating from Buck’s weak blue eyes magnified by his thick eyeglasses?
Then it came to Greene: Buck devoured paperwork the way other men took in food and drink. Obviously, Buck had scanned the
visiting-player roster—all fifty-odd pages of it —and saw the name, which must have rung a bell. (Buck knew everything.) It
would have been a snap for Buck to have run it through the computer. Then… bingo!
Buck asked, “You sure it’s not the fact that this time around, as far as you’re concerned, Red Sky is going to be a blood
feud that’s bugging you?”
“Goddammit, Buck,” Greene cursed, staring straight ahead as he tightly gripped the steering wheel. “You’re about as subtle
as a B-52! I mean, goddammit! I love you like a brother, but sometimes you just talk too fucking much for your own good!”
“Sorry,” Buck murmured as they pulled up in front of Red Square, a cinder-block building painted white, with a blood-red hammer
and sickle stenciled above the front door. “Forget I said anything,” Buck finished, shrugging.
Greene thought,
“Love you like a brother…” Did I really say that? Talk about your Freudian slip!
(Two)
Red Square
Attackers Squadron Operations Building
It was close to nine
P.M
. by the time Major Robbie Greene had caught up with the day’s paperwork. His large office had white
walls, an acoustical tile ceiling, tan metal furniture and file cabinets, and windows overlooking the OPS building’s parking
lot. The office was decorated with a framed, silk-woven, Soviet-style red star; configuration posters of Russian aircraft;
and various plaques, notes of appreciation, and other thank-you mementos from the player squadron groups that had gone through
Red Sky. It was a nice office. Lots nicer and roomier than a major warranted, but then, being the “head honcho Commie gomer”
had its privileges.
Despite his comfortable surroundings, Greene prided himself on spending as little time as possible here. He was a flier, not
a desk man. His usual MO was to let a week’s worth of his paperwork mount to overflowing in one of the several In boxes he
had scattered around the place and then settle in for a marathon session of skimming the bullshit and scrawling his name whenever
required. He never could have gotten away with such behavior if he didn’t have Buck to keep him abreast of the really important
stuff, but then, he
did
have Buck, so, all in all, the burden of command wasn’t much of a hassle for him, considering that he had a revolving roster
of twenty-five pilots, twenty airplanes, at any one time five or ten Attacker pilot trainees, and three hundred ground and
support personnel under his command. Greene’s immediate superior was his wing CO, Colonel Larry Field, but the colonel was
a good guy, content to leave Greene alone to run his squadron as he saw fit.