Wraith (10 page)

Spangdahlem Air Base, Germany

At seven o'clock sharp, Oso and Nick stood in front of Redeye's desk, expecting the worst. They felt like schoolchildren waiting to talk to the principal, and the commander knew it; he let them stand there at attention for a full two minutes before he even acknowledged their presence. “Do you know what this is?” he asked finally, holding up a document.

“No, sir.” Oso answered for both of them.

The commander interrupted his own train of thought, standing and leaning across his desk to get a closer look at the two pilots. “What happened to you two? Did you get in a bar fight or something?”

They glanced at each other. For the first time, Nick noticed the marks from the previous night's brawl. Oso had a nice purple shiner under his right eye. Nick couldn't even remember connecting a punch there. He knew the left side of his own face sported a red blotch the size of Oso's fist. They both turned back to the commander at the same time.

“I slipped in the shower.”

“I ran into a door.”

“Uh-huh . . . Anyway, this is the first draft of the memo I've been asked to submit to the wing commander explaining how I could lose four Hogs to a single French missile system. Would you like to help me with it?”

Oso remained silent. Nick wasn't quite as savvy. “Our Wild Weasel support never showed. We had to deal with SAM alone,” he said.

The commander glared at Nick, obviously annoyed at the younger pilot's inability to read the situation. “That was rhetorical, Nick. And there never was a Blade Flight.”

Both pilots looked surprised and Redeye raised his eyebrows. “Oh, you hadn't figured that out? I thought you two were smarter. The retasking of your two specific flights was a planned portion of the exercise. I earmarked you two to face that SAM three days ago, in response to a directive from the planning committee. The whole thing was a test of this squadron's ability to handle that type of mission with minimal support. They were watching this one at the NATO staff level. I put
your
flights against that SAM because I thought you two could handle the challenge. You proved me wrong.”

Nick felt the color draining from his face as the commander explained the gravity of their failure. They hadn't just lost a few points in the exercise; they'd embarrassed their squadron, their whole country. His eyes fell to the carpet.

“We've been given another shot at a similar situation tomorrow, but I'm putting Trash and Psych against it,” continued the commander. “Hopefully they won't pork it like you two did.” He sat back down, trying to regain his calm. “I reviewed the GPS tracks and the cockpit tapes. I know everything that happened out there; so you can save your excuses. By the way, Nick, after Oso's flight was eliminated, what on earth made you think that you could do better than a weapons school grad with three times the experience?”

Nick's eyes flashed up again and locked with the commander's. He recognized the rhetorical question this time and kept his mouth shut, even though he wanted to point out that he
had
done better. At least he'd killed the SAM before he died.

“Sure,” the commander said, reading his mind, “you neutralized the SAM before it was over, but that was just the first step.” Redeye's voice began to rise. “The SAM was the threat. The
airfield
was the target, and you couldn't take it out because you were
dead!
” He shouted the last word. Then he stopped and leaned back in his chair, taking a moment to bring his voice back to a conversational tone. “The bottom line is this: You both demonstrated poor decision making and cowboy tactics, and in a real war it would have cost lives. Well, any last words?”

Neither pilot spoke. “I'm done with you, then. That was your last flight in this squadron.”

“What?” asked Nick, unable to control the outburst.

The commander opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a manila envelope. He held it up for Nick to take. “In an odd twist of fortune you just became someone else's problem. These are your orders to Whiteman Air Force Base. Congratulations, you've been selected to fly the stealth bomber. You'll get no final flight in the A-10, though. I don't want to waste any more jet fuel on you.”

Nick was speechless. It was such an inglorious way to receive news he'd thought he would never hear. He slowly reached up and took the envelope from Redeye's hand.

Redeye's voice softened as he turned to Oso. “You're leaving as well. I realize that you're still beating yourself up over Brent. I had hoped that time would heal you, that a couple of weeks back in the saddle would snap you out of it. Obviously that didn't work. You backed away from the Irish Cross yesterday because you thought Brent's accident was going to happen all over again.”

The commander sighed. “I don't know, Oso, maybe you just need a few more flights and a little more time, but that's gas and time that I don't have. Nine/eleven changed things. The world's going to hell in a handbasket and at any moment we could get the call. Whether it's Afghanistan or Iran or our old friend Saddam, I need a weapons officer with his head on straight, and right now you're not him. I'm going to make some phone calls and cash in a couple of favors. Barring any surprises I'll have you shipped out of here in a month. Until then, you can fly a desk.”

“Shipped where, sir?” Oso asked slowly.

“If you want to mother hen the younger wingmen, I'm going to put you somewhere that it'll do some good. I'm sending you to the A-10 schoolhouse in Tucson. I'm not sending you there because I think you'll be the best instructor they've ever seen; I'm sending you there to keep you out of combat for a while.”

The commander returned his gaze to the papers on his desk. “That's all I've got. You're both dismissed.”

Nick left the commander's office and headed straight for the small squadron fitness room. He couldn't believe that he'd been grounded. Even though he'd only miss one flight, it was an important one. A pilot's last flight in an attack squadron was a big deal, a way to honor his contributions to the team, and being denied that flight by his very first squadron was a slap in the face that would haunt him for the rest of his career. He rounded the last corner of the hallway and unzipped his flight suit down to the waist, pulling his arms from the sleeves.

By the time he pushed through the double doors of the fitness room, Nick had the sleeves of his flight suit tied securely around his midsection. He headed straight for the heavy bag. He didn't bother wrapping his knuckles. He just started pummeling the canvas.

As Nick let the punches fly, form and technique gave way to heat and anger. The old canvas worked like sandpaper on his unprotected knuckles and it wasn't long before small spots of blood appeared after each punch.

Nick punished the bag for his lost chance at retribution for September 11, for the loss of his wingman, and for his loss of face in front of the French; but mostly he punished the bag because something inside him needed to bloody something up, even if it was his own knuckles.

When finally his arms ached, so heavy that he could no longer raise them to strike, Nick ceased his onslaught. He looked at the mess he'd made of his hands and wondered where this had come from. Was this his way of mourning? It shamed him to see that Oso took Brent's loss so hard while he continued life as if nothing had happened. It shamed him to realize that even now he wasn't so much mourning Brent as he was mourning his own inability to prevent the young man's death.

Part of Nick had been lost along with Brent in that wreckage near Böchingen. That part of him that was invincible and infallible, that part that could walk through fire unsinged was now gone, and he could feel the empty space where it had been. That part of him should have seen the accident coming a mile away, but it didn't; it evaporated when he'd needed it most and then refused to return.

Nick grabbed a towel and attempted to wipe the blood from the canvas. It had soaked in too deep. The stain would be there forever. He gave up and walked to the restroom to clean himself up, wincing as the water that rinsed the blood away also forced open the wounds. Nick resisted the urge to pull his hands back, allowing the pain because he knew that, without it, there would be no healing.

Refinement

Central Missouri

27 December 2002

Nick's move to the stealth wing had proved to be a huge mistake. Piloting one of the world's most advanced aircraft was supposed to be the opportunity of a lifetime. But, nearly a year later, he still hadn't piloted one.

And now he wondered if he ever would.

“Emergency aircraft call sign Fast Two One, the fire trucks are rolling and the runway is yours. Do you need any further assistance?”

“Not unless you can douse my engine from there, Tower. We are three miles from touchdown. Confirm we are cleared to land.”

“Cleared to land, Fast Two One. Good luck.”

Even though Nick had been accepted into the stealth wing, his flight experience fell short of the minimum hours required to begin B-2 training. Consequently, the wing commander had given him a one-year assignment as an instructor in the wing's companion trainer program to beef up his logbook. The B-2 was expensive to fly and the companion trainer program allowed the regular B-2 pilots to get additional flight time in the Northrop T-38 Talon—a small, sleek, 1960s-era fighter trainer. Nick's job as an instructor was to familiarize them with the T-38 when they arrived at the base.

Most pilots would have killed to fly the supersonic T-38 for a living, but this one-year job stood between Nick and the stealth bomber, and he resented it. He continued to keep tabs on Bin Laden and his network. Al-Majid was still thought to be in Iraq, and things were heating up there. Nick desperately wanted to part of the hunt, but that would never happen while he was stuck flying pattern hops in a training jet.

Perhaps the little jet felt Nick's contempt. Ten minutes earlier, it had betrayed him. Shortly after takeoff on a flight with a new B-2 pilot, one of his T-38's engines had caught fire.

Something flashed in the lower periphery of Nick's vision. The red fire warning light on his glare shield blinked erratically and then went dark.

“Fire's out!” reported the pilot in the seat ahead of him, a new transfer from the B-52 that everyone called Motor. “Maybe the extinguisher finally worked.”

Nick glanced down at his gauges. The temperature needle was still pegged. That didn't make sense. He checked the small mirror mounted on his canopy and saw black smoke still trailing the aircraft. A quick test of the fire sensors confirmed his fears. “Negative. Still burning. The light's out because the fire burned through the sensor system.”

“That's bad isn't it?”

“Means it's getting closer to the fuel tanks.” Nick gauged the distance to the runway.
Two miles
. “Listen, I'm going to land from the back seat so that you can deal with the throttle gate up front. As soon as we land I want you to shut the good engine down.”

“Don't we need that engine to power the brakes?”

“I'll still have the emergency brakes. They'll do the job. We've got to get out of this thing ASAP after touch down, and shutting the engine down early will help.”

The runway's touchdown zone was growing larger in the windscreen. From Nick's perspective it was about as wide as the T-38's nosecone, indicating that they were a mile and half out. His speed and altitude were still good. He would make the landing, as long as the fire gave him the chance.

“Pop your canopy as we slow through thirty-five knots; that'll add some drag,” he told Motor. “As soon as I've got her stopped ditch your flight harness and get out. We'll be cutting this kind of close.”

One mile to go. We can make it.
Nick checked his mirror again. This time he saw flames licking at the fuselage on the left side. The fire was still moving forward. Ahead, he could see the fire trucks waiting at the first taxiway. The landing would take him a good mile past their position, but if they waited at midfield and Nick lost control, he could crash into them. The risk was too great. Once he shot past, this would become a mad race between the fire trucks and the flames that were burning their way toward his fuel tank.

“Brace yourself. I'm gonna land her hard to kill some speed.”

The pavement passed beneath them and Nick slammed the wheels into the ground, instantly knocking fifteen knots off the speed. “Now, Motor!”

Motor shut down the good engine. Nick was left with just the emergency brakes. His legs burned as he struggled to keep her straight with the steering pedals, but he couldn't let up on the brake pressure. The emergency brakes were a one-off. If he let up at all, he'd have nothing left on the next try. Halfway down the runway they popped their canopies open. With the added resistance, Nick finally brought the jet to a halt. Sirens blared as the fire trucks sped toward them, but help was still a good half mile away. He threw off his helmet and harness, climbed over the right side, and dropped to the ground. Motor was right beside him. The flames had almost reached the cockpit, engulfing the left wing.

The two pilots ran at a full sprint until the concussion of the blast knocked them to the ground. Nick rolled over to see a mushroom of fire and black smoke rising into the air. He had to shield his face against the heat. A fountain of white foam shot from a turret mounted on top of the approaching fire truck, trying to contend with the blaze.

Motor groaned and rolled over next to him. After watching the firefighters work for a few seconds he patted Nick on the arm. “Boy, do you have a lot of paperwork to do.”

The two pilots spent hours at the base hospital getting checked out and questioned before they were sent home—a repeat of Nick's experience in Germany. Both of them were medically cleared, but from the questions Nick was asked it became apparent that the explosion had not just destroyed the aircraft, it had damaged tens of thousands of dollars in airfield security and radio navigation equipment near the runway. Before the docs were even finished taking a blood sample, word came down through the pilot grapevine that the wing commander was gunning for him. He was the instructor on the flight. He was responsible.

The next morning, even after the two showers that had bracketed his sleepless night, the stench of burning jet fuel still clung to Nick's nostrils, promising to stay with him forever. Trying to breathe through his mouth instead, he climbed the stairs to his office on the second floor of the training squadron. He closed the door, collapsed into his chair, and stared down at the huge stack of papers that someone had thoughtfully left on his desk—probably Motor.

There were forms for flight safety and forms for the tower, forms for security and forms for maintenance. There were forms for just about every agency on base. And once Nick finished them, he had nothing to look forward to except finding out what dank, dark hole the brass would stick him in for the rest of his heavily shortened career. Maybe they would let him train as an intelligence officer. That way he could keep working on his Al-Qaeda file. Even washouts had to have a hobby.

Two major accident investigations in a little more than a year.
Nick reached for the pen that lay beside the stack. Then he paused, retracted the hand, and slowly bent down to rest his forehead on the topmost form instead. He needed a few moments to veg out before actively contributing to his own downfall.

No sooner had Nick's forehead touched the cool surface of the paper than an obnoxious ring sent him jerking upright again. He glowered at the old-style phone on the corner of his desk. “Why didn't I unplug you?” He waited three more rings before finally picking up the receiver. “T-38 desk. Unsecure.”

“Nick?” The raspy voice of his director of operations was unmistakable, his tone ominous.

Nick checked the edge in his voice. “Yes, sir. How can I help you?”

“I need to see you in my office right now.”

No,
thought Nick, but he knew better than to argue with Drag. Instead, he acknowledged the order and immediately began the long trek down the hall to the DO's office. He should have known that Drag would want to interrogate him personally about the accident.

Drag was one of those people who seemed purpose-built for intimidation. He wasn't stocky, but he was unusually tall, with hawklike features. When he addressed a subordinate, his black eyes peered down his sharp beak from beneath feathery eyebrows, as if assessing a field mouse that would soon be dinner. And his unfortunate cigarette habit compounded the problem. The chain-smoking lieutenant colonel liked to lean down and deliver verbal abuse in close proximity to his victim's nose, his smoker's breath making it impossible to breathe.

Nick stopped in front of the DO's door, took a last breath of fresh air, and hesitantly knocked.

Drag opened the door and barreled out, nearly knocking him over. “Follow me.”

Nick followed Drag down the hallway to a set of big steel double doors. He knew that the B-2 mission planning rooms were behind them, but he'd never been back there. He had the clearances but he'd never had a purpose, and it was an unwritten rule at the stealth wing that you didn't go wandering into secure rooms unless you had a purpose.

“You ever use this one before?” Drag asked, indicating the entry system next to the door.

“No, sir,” Nick replied.

“You'd better do the honors, then. Just because you're supposed to be in the system doesn't necessarily mean you are. We'd better make sure your code works.”

Nick pressed his thumb against the small red touchscreen and entered his personal code into the keypad. The big vault door cracked open an inch. Drag pushed it wide and ushered Nick inside. They stood at the beginning of a long gray hallway lined with rooms. The heavy door at the opposite end held a large red and white sign. Big block letters warned:

Emergency Exit Only—Alarm Will Sound—Lethal Force Is Authorized

Nick thrust his chin at the sign. “So, if the building catches on fire you get to choose between burning to death and getting shot?”

Drag ignored the comment. “This is us,” he said, indicating another steel door to their right. “You don't have access to this one; not many people do.”

This room was little more than a broom closet. There was nothing but a heavy safe, two stools, a desk, and an industrial-sized shredder. The DO spun the combination lock on the safe and removed a small stack of papers, placing them on the desk before taking a seat on the stool behind it. Finally he folded his hands and looked up at Nick.

Nick snorted. “Great. More paperwork.” Now that his career was over, he had decided to let his natural sarcasm roam free.

“Did you ever hear the phrase ‘seen but not heard,' Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let's try it.”

Nick nodded silently. Maybe he should keep the sarcasm penned up a little longer.

“Listen,” said Drag. “These papers have nothing to do with yesterday's accident. In fact, that paperwork is all done.”

“But I never signed any—”

“Yes you did.” Drag waved a hand, cutting him off. “You humbly but accurately recounted the story of how you saved your life and another's against unbelievable odds. The wing commander would be an idiot not to hand you a medal. And every form ends with a signature that looks exactly like the one you've placed on a dozen other documents since your arrival here.”

Drag's eyes narrowed. “And now I need one more. I brought you in here to read you into a program well above your current clearance level.” He set a pen down next to the papers. “All that's required is your signature.”

Nick reached for the pen but Drag snatched it away.

“Not so fast. This is not a decision to be made lightly. You don't even know what the clearance is for. You've been selected for an assignment, but you won't be able to tell anybody what you're doing or where you're going, not even your wife. In fact, you may be separated from your wife for long periods of time, and you won't be allowed to tell her why.”

Drag raised his bushy eyebrows. “Until you make your choice, I can't tell you what the assignment is, where it is, or how long it will take; all I can tell you at this moment is that you must make that choice right here, right now.”

Drag picked up the pen and tapped the document at the top of the stack. “Option one: You can sign this top paper. If you do that, this conversation never happened; we never speak of it again. You start B-2 training in a month”—Drag held up a hand and wiggled it—“or maybe not. You
did
just blow up a plane.”

“But you said—”

“Option two,” Drag continued. “You can shred that top paper, sit down at this stool, and read and sign the document underneath. Take option two and I've got lots more to tell you.” He held out the pen. “What'll it be?”

Nick picked up the top document and shoved it into the shredder. Then he took the pen from Drag's hand, sat down, and started reviewing the pages of the other.

The DO nodded. “Good choice, kid. Very good choice.”