801 T.T.S. Airbats Fan Fiction ❯ Japanese Bat, American Eagle, North Korean Dragon ❯ Prologue ( Prologue )

LUKE AIR FORCE BASE

04 July, 2003

2000hrs Local

 

“Lt. Soames, Lt. Orlando, good evening. I'm your instructor for this evening, Captain Marx. Tonight, we'll be practicing a low-level night penetration and bombing.” Captain Christopher Marx, USAF, said to his newest trainee. He referred to the map of the training areas north of Luke, hanging on the wall of his office. “Tonight, you will also be taught that terrain is your friend. Use it to your advantage. But don't let get too intimate with Mother Earth; because if you're not careful, she will take a swipe at you. And she will hurt you more than you can hurt her. Any questions?”

1st Lieutenant Soames looked at his instructor. “What's tonight's target, sir?”

“Ah, I see I have a bright one.” Marx chuckled. “Our `target' for tonight is an armor rally point. The United States Army has graciously loaned us a battalion's worth of M-60 tanks and M-113 APCs. They have been marked up to appear as former Warsaw Pact equipment, and will have thermal generators so we can see them with the FLIR. We'll be taking them out with Rockeyes.”

Marx went back to the map. “We'll be flying a circuitous route, at low altitude.” He pointed to one section of the map. “To the initial point here. From here we'll climb to five hundred feet, in hundred foot increments to the release point. Once we release, we'll go to afterburner and initiate evasive maneuvers. Any questions?”

Lt. Soames raised his hand. “Sir, on the flight plan, you have us going in to the IP at 50 feet.”

“And you'd like to know why?” Both Soames and Orlando nodded their heads. “That's because the lower you are, the less of a chance there is for bad guys to spot you.”

“I'll see you on the flightline. Dismissed.” The two trainees saluted Marx and left the office. Marx finished filing his paperwork for the training mission, and grabbed his chart bag before heading to Life Support to gear up and grab his backseater.

 

“Evening, Cobb.” Marx said greeting his backseater. “We've got a pair of high speed trainees tonight.”

“That's so, Scooter?” Cobb looked up from the magazine he was reading.

“Yep. One of them even wanted to find out our mission. I think it was the backseater. But I'm not sure.”

“So what's the plan, boss?” Cobb grabbed his helmet and cards for the training area.

“The usual; low altitude approach to the target, rocketing up to 500 feet for weapons release and burners out of the target area. The usual mission, making the scrap pile even larger at Range 10.”

“Sounds like a plan. I'm ready for Rockeye surgery,” Cobb smiled.

Marx and Cobb got into their “speed jeans,” the G-suit that kept blood from pooling in their feet during radical maneuvers. Over their flightsuits went their parachute harnesses and survival gear. Lastly, they grabbed their helmets and oxygen masks for the flight.

They walked out to their fighter. Sitting next to their Strike Eagle was their trainee wingman's ship. Both Cobb and Marx began their walk around of their fighter. Cobb was checking the security of their external stores, while Marx inspected the ship starting at the nose of the fighter, and working his way around. He checked any exterior panels, making sure that they were secured. Marx inspected the inlet ramp for his portside Pratt & Whitney F-100 afterburning turbofan, making sure it was clear of FOD. Marx moved out along the wing inspecting the surface, and the control surfaces, before moving to the exhaust and starboard side of the fighter.

Cobb was loading mission information into the fighter's flight computer. He looked over at the trainees' ship and saw that Lt. Orlando was doing the same thing. “At least he's got that part of the flight down. I'd love to be a fly in their cockpit, when Scooter introduces them to low-level, Marx style.”

Marx climbed into the front cockpit, and strapped into the ejection seat, and plugged his mask and intercom into the ship. “Doctor, communications check.”

“I read you loud and clear, Scooter.”

Marx switched channels. “Air Force Zero Niner Five, this is Zero Niner Four. Comm check.”

“Zero Niner Four, this is Zero Niner Five. Loud and clear, over.”

“Zero Niner Five, roger. Out.” Marx changed to the tower frequency. “Luke Tower, Air Force Zero Niner Four. Radio check.”

“Zero Niner Four, I read you loud and clear. Out.”

“Ready to get paid, Doc?”

“Any time, Scooter.”

Marx signaled his crew chief. The power cart throttled up and Marx ignited the port engine. With a roar the engine lit and generator one took the load from the power cart. Formation, navigation and anti-collision lights came on. Marx moved the throttle for engine two into the start position and hit the cross over ignition switch. Both engines spooled up to idle, and Marx lowered the canopy. He looked over and saw that the trainee's bird was already powered up and ready. Marx applied the foot brakes, signaled his crew chief and released the parking brake. The wheel chocks were pulled from underneath the fighter. With a salute, SSgt. Hendricks signaled they were clear.

“Luke Tower, November Four Flight of two Strike Eagles requesting permission to taxi.”

“November Flight you are cleared to taxi to runway 24, and hold short. Winds out of the west at 05 knots, ceiling and visibility unlimited. Contact Range Control on 138.04 for clearance into the training area.”

“Luke Tower, November Flight. Roger, out.” Marx released the foot brakes and applied power. The engines spooled up and overcame the inertia of the sitting fighter. Marx taxied out first, followed by Lt. Soames. The two ship formation taxied to the active runway and stopped. A pair of Strike Eagles from an earlier training sortie touched down, and cleared the runway.

“November Flight, Luke Tower. You are cleared on to Runway 24 for departure. Turn to course 285 upon departure and resume previous instructions.”

“Luke Tower, November Lead. Roger.” Marx added a bit of power, released the brakes again and taxied on to one side of the runway, his trainees taxied on the opposite side. “Here we go,” Marx said as he slammed the throttles to the stops. His fighter started rolling down the runway, followed two seconds back by his wingman. He pulled back on the stick and the fighter climbed like an angel. Marx glanced over his shoulder, as he turned on to the new heading before heading out to towards Range 10, and saw that his wingman trainees were still in tight formation

“November One, this is November Two. Sir, I'm getting some weird feedback from the stick. It's almost like the elevators are binding, sir.”

“November Two, One. I'll see if we can't get this training sortie scrub for mechanical reasons.” Marx replied. He switched to the squadron channel. “November, this is November Four flight. I am requesting that we abort the sortie.”

“November Four, this is November Oscar. State the reason why.”

“November Oscar, November Four. My wingman is reporting possible binding in her horizontal stabilators. This may prove to be dangerous during the low-level portion of the sortie.”

“November Four, Oscar. Your request is denied. This is your wingman's fourth sortie in that ship. She can handle it. November Oscar, out.”

“Pompous arrogant ass,” Marx muttered. He switched back to the formation channel. “November Two, Oscar is denying the abort.”

“Understood, sir.” Her voice sounded less than hopeful.

“God, I hope nothing happens,” Marx muttered “November Two, come to course 315, and drop to 200 feet.”

“November Two, roger.”

“Scooter, why so high?” Cobb asked from the back seat.

“It doesn't feel right, Doc. It just doesn't feel right.”

“Whatever, Scoot. We've been working together for too long for me to know I shouldn't second-guess you.”

 

Hope, AZ

2245hrs local

 

“Scooter, we're approaching final checkpoint to the IP.”

“Gotcha, Doc.” Marx keyed the flight's channel. “November Two, One. Come to new heading 030, and accelerate to four five zero knots”

“Roger. Sir, my controls seem to be fine now. My guess is that it is an intermittent fault.”

”Understood, November Two. Descend and maintain 100 feet.” Marx pushed his stick forward, and dropped another hundred feet, while pushing the throttle forward to military power. His fighter accelerated smoothly.

Cobb glanced over his shoulder and saw Soames doing the same thing. Both fighters flew right down the center line of Highway 3, which runs right through the center of town, intersecting County Road 29. At the intersection of the two highways was the small town of Hope. Both fighters rocketed over the town, causing the alarms in what few cars were so equipped with to go off.

In the Justice of the Peace's house, his wife woke up suddenly. “Paw,” she said, “those damn UFO's are back.”

The Justice looked at his wife. “I'll call the Air Force base in the morning maw, and complain if they're ours.”

A rookie reporter for the Phoenix Sun was driving out of town and stopped when he saw two sets of lights in his rearview mirror. He got out and snapped off a whole roll of film, saying to himself that his editor is finally going to have photographic proof of UFOs over this small rural Arizona town. This photographic proof, however, will be the undoing for a certain pair Air Force officers.

 

As the two American fighters cleared the town behind them, Lt. Soames began fighting with her aircraft. “November One, that fault is back again, sir. Sir, I'm getting a full fledged failure of the stabilators.” The fighter began to nose down. Even though it was only one degree below the horizon, at 100 feet, going 450 knots, could be fatal.

Marx cursed. “November Two, Eject! Eject! Eject!” He switched channels. “Range Control, Range Control, this is November Four flight. November Four-Two is declaring an emergency and ejecting. We need Angel One airborne.”

“I saw two good chutes, Scooter,” Cobb called over the intercom. “Scratch one Strike Eagle.” November Two hit the ground and erupted into a ball of fire half a mile from the egress point of its crew. Mk. 20 Rockeye canisters detonated, and the fighter's 20mm ammunition was cooking off.

“Range Control, this is November Four One. We need fire department support, three miles west of Hope. November Four Two has hit the ground and detonated. Relay to Angel One that there were two good chutes, and we are orbiting over their position.”

“November Four-One, Range Control. Roger, confirmation of two parachutes. Angel One is airborne and enroute. Local authorities and squadron commander have been contacted. RTB as soon as possible.”

“Range Control, November Four One. Roger, returning to base. November Four One, out.” Marx replied.

“Scooter, I think we're going to be in a bit of trouble with the boss,” Cobb said.

“I know, Doctor. I know.”

 

As soon as they had shut down the engines to their fighter, the squadron CO, LTC McNamara, was waiting for them. “Marx, Cobb, because of this crash, General Breed is convening the investigation boards. You are both grounded until we find out who's to blame for this. Go turn in your gear and get some rest.”

 

LUKE AIR FORCE BASE

HEADQUARTERS BLDG.

06 July 2003

0830 hrs, local

 

Marx and Cobb sat outside conference room 1, waiting for the local Safety Investigation Board to convene. “Dude, we're screwed. They're going to fry us and hang us out to dry.”

Marx looked at his backseater. “Cobb, what did we do wrong? Nothing. I filed a flight plan that included a low level portion. Major Scott has pulled the maintenance records for that particular aircraft. There was no loss of life, and only one minor injury. What can they do to us?”

A senior airman exited the conference room. “Captain Marx, the board will see you now.”

“`Angels and ministers of grace defend us.'” Marx muttered under his breath. He stood and tucked his service cap under his left arm. He entered the conference room, walked to within 2 paces of the conference table, next to a lone armchair. He saluted the board president. “Captain Marx, reporting as ordered, sir.”

The president returned his salute. “Be seated, Captain.” He waited a moment for Marx to sit. “Captain, for the record state your name, rank, assignment, and duty position.”

“Yes sir. Christopher Orion Marx, Captain, 555th Tactical Training Squadron, Luke Air Force Base, F-15E Strike Eagle instructor.”

“Captain Marx, describe for the board your mission of 4 July, 2003.”

“Yes sir. We were running a nighttime low-level bombing run at Range 10. We departed Luke at 2130 hours. While enroute to the exercise area, our wingman, First Lieutenant Soames reported that she was experiencing feedback from her elevators. I contacted Operations and requested that we abort the mission. Major Donaldson requested why, and I informed him that Lt. Soames' aircraft, Air Force 90-095 was experiencing anomalous binding in her elevators. Maj. Donaldson denied the request, saying that it was Lt. Soames had flown four previous missions in that airframe. I modified our flight plan enroute, and we dropped to two hundred feet. We had clearance to 50 feet, AGL; this had been approved by both the safety officer, and squadron commander.

“We continued on, and while approaching our final checkpoint prior to our initial point, Lt. Soames reported that the elevator anomaly had stopped. We dropped our altitude another hundred feet.

“As we cleared our final checkpoint, Lt. Soames reported that the anomaly had returned, and in fact had intensified when she reported a full fledged failure of her horizontal stabilators. I ordered to and her and her backseater to eject. Lt. Cobb, my backseater, reported seeing two good chutes, and I radioed in a mayday to Range Control. We orbited until we could see the lights of the rescue chopper. Then we returned to base.”

“Captain Marx, at any time after you returned to base, did you look into why this aircraft went down?” The maintenance officer of the board asked.

“Sir, I did look into the aircraft assignment for Lieutenant Soames. I had read the reports of her previous training missions, and had found that this pilot was not only assigned the same aircraft every mission- AF 90-059, but also was a very competent pilot, quite possibly another General Yeager, a natural that I would want on my wing. I also looked into the assignments for -095, as well as -059.”

“And what did you find about Air Force 90-095, Captain?”

“That -059 had been assigned to a daytime sortie by Major Donaldson, when it was supposed to have been assigned to Lt. Soames for her mission with me.”

The board president looked at Marx right in the eyes. “Thank you Captain Marx. We have no further questions.”

Marx stood, saluted and left the conference room. He sat down, just in time for the senior airman to open the door. “First Lieutenant Cobb, the board will see you know.” Cobb stood, and went into the conference room.

 

LUKE AIR FORCE BASE

HEADQUARTERS BLDG

OFFICE OF THE BASE COMMANDER

1000hrs 07 July 2003

 

Marx, Cobb, the squadron maintenance officer, Maj. Scott; the squadron commander, LTC Kelley; and the wing commander, Brigadier General Misckner stood at attention in a semicircle in front of the base commander, Maj. General Breed. Sitting on Breed's desk were the personnel records for Cobb and Marx, and a copy of today's Phoenix Sun. A blurry color photo of the nose of Marx's plane graced the front page.

“Captain Marx,” General Breed said, “I understand that the Accident Board cleared you, your WSO, your trainee and her WSO regarding the accident on the 4th.”

“Yes sir,” Marx replied.

“Shut up Marx. When I want your input I will ask you for it.” Breed glared at him. He gestured at the assembled officers with the Sun. “And how low were you flying when the photographer from Sun got this lovely picture of the smiley face on the nose of your plane, under your cockpit sill?” The headline for today's paper read “UFOs or the Air Force?” “Well, Marx? Answer me!”

“Sir, we were flying at 100 feet, sir. Well within the requested, and might I add, authorized minimum altitude we had requested from Range Control. And within your guidelines for realistic training, sir.”

“And, General,” Major Scott piped in, “it wasn't pilot error that caused the crash. The data recorders and telemetry clearly show control failure.”

“Not another word from any of you. If I wanted your input, I'd ask for it Major,” Breed growled at Scott. He bent over and picked up a manila folder and dropped it on the desk. About the size of the Verizon NYC White Pages, it shook the desk about the same when it landed. “Do you know what this is Marx?” Not waiting for an answer he continued. “This is a complaint folder I've been compiling ever since you got here. Complaints made regarding a particular instructor flying with the 555th. Of course, the one from the Phoenix Police Department could have been about any two aircrews here, but somehow, I'm not sure how, the two of you responsible.”

“Sir, I've only been complying with your orders for more realistic flight training. We've gotten letters of appreciation from other Strike Eagle squadrons about the pilots and WSOs that have been trained in the realistic flight procedures that I and Lt. Cobb practice. If that means flying fifty feet off the ground, then we'll do it.

“And as for that bar brawl, General, Cobb and I, in no way shape or form, were involved in that. I had a date that night, and Cobb was already passed out in his quarters.”

“Marx, I don't care. You're probably still responsible for that fight. And as for those letters of appreciation, they don't mean squat on the face of this. Remember the old saying `One “Oh shit” will wipe out a hundred “Attaboys”.' Well, Marx, you've got a hundred `Oh shit's' wiping out every one of those letters of appreciation.

“So, you know what? I want you out of the 555th. I want you out of my hair. I want you off my base. Both of you!” Breed took a sheet of paper from under the personnel files. “And I've got my out right here. The commander of the Detachment One, High Technology Aircraft and Weapons Center, Elliot AFB, is looking for an experienced F-15E instructor pilot and WSO to test a new fighter. The slots are for a major and captain, so guess what, gentlemen? Congratulations. Marx, you made 0-4 and Cobb, you made 0-3. But, before you congratulate each other, I want this made very clear. You have until the end of business today to get the hell off my base.

“And I want you at Elliot, reported in and snug down, no later than tomorrow afternoon. CBPO is already cutting your orders, and pencil-whipping most of out-processing. And I've already called the local US Marshals. They will ensure that the two of you reach Elliot, or they will take you into custody for desertion. And Marx, they already know your car. There aren't too many antique Volvos with tailfins in the downtown Phoenix area.”

Breed stood and placed his hands on the desk, palms flat. “Now, get the hell out of my office!”

 

* * *

ELLIOT AFB
HEADQUARTERS BLDG
DETACHMENT 1 HAWC

0800 hrs, 08 July 2003

 

Marx and Cobb stood outside the detachment commander's office, waiting for their new boss. It had taken the two all night to drive the distance from Luke to Elliot. And after a couple of wrong turns, mainly because of the fact that Elliot was not exactly a very well advertised base, still managed to arrive before the duty day.

Major General Patrick McLanahan walked into the outer office, and the two junior officers snapped to attention. The General looked over the two with a critical eye. Their uniform trousers were rumpled, as though they had worn them on the drive over from Luke; their eyes were bloodshot from too little sleep, although the way the florescent lights reflected off of Marx's glasses made it hard to tell on him. “Major Marx?” The bespectacled Marx nodded. “Captain Cobb?” The backseater nodded as well. “Well then, welcome gentlemen to Elliot Air Force Base, and the High Technology Aircraft and Weapons Center.” The General motioned them into his office. They remained standing, as McLanahan opened his briefcase and withdrew two service jackets. They still landed on his desk with a thud. “General Breed thought I would like to see these before my new experimental crew arrived. He had them flown over after he had his `chat' with the two of you.

“Suffice to say, Major, Captain, I'm not exactly thrilled at the prospect of a highly secret project being handed to the likes of you two. Nor do I like my unit being used as a dumping ground for disciplinary cases.

“So here is the law according to me: If, during the program you screw up, you are out. Not just out of my unit, but out of the Air Force. And the aircraft that you are to be flying is hot enough that if you screw up in it, you're both dead. Unless you do something to make me forget about your screw up, then I'll forgive you. But my patience can wear thin very quickly.

“Major Marx, I've heard about your exploits at fifty feet. I'm handing you the reins of a multi-billion dollar project. You are not, under any circumstances, to drop below five hundred feet. The only exception to this, Major, is during ACM training. Am I clear?”

“As crystal, sir.”

“Excellent. We'll all get along better, as long as you remember that. Now, my secretary will have quarters for you. Get some sleep, and we'll see Cheetah this evening.

“Dismissed.” Both officers saluted, did an about face and left the General's office.