Repost: Armistice Day and Beyond

[Matt Wiser]

The 335th goes to Fairchild AFB, just in time for Armistice Day..

Armistice Day and Beyond

Laredo AFB, TX: 12 October, 1989, 1000 Central War Time


Even though it was nearly Mid-October, it was still hot in Laredo, as it was in much of Texas. The state had been devastated by the war, and in many areas, the U.S. Military was taking over many functions of local government, since local government institutions had been decimated by the occupation, so the military was assuming responsibilities for restoring essential services, medical, and law and order. Laredo was no exception, and the city-along with the entire Rio Grande River from El Paso down to Brownsville, was a declared Military Zone, where military law applied.

That wasn't a concern to those at the air base, whether they were Air Force, Marines, Navy, or (increasingly) Army Aviation. Though there was a cease-fire with the Mexicans, along with the Soviets and Cubans who'd fled into Mexico, things on the border were still tense. Still, events were calm enough that some units that had fought in Texas and the Southwest were headed north to the Canadian Theater, where there was still a shooting war going on.

For Major Matt Wiser of the Air Force's 335th Tactical Fighter Squadron, today was to be redeployment day. His ground echelon had left Laredo a week earlier, and he was sitting in the Operations Center for Marine Air Group 11, the Marine unit that his squadron had been attached to since the beginning of the war, back in 1985. His Executive Officer, Capt. Don Van Loan, had gone with the ground echelon, leaving the Ops Officer, Capt. Kara Thrace, as acting Exec. Van Loan had also taken twelve crews along with him, leaving the CO with twenty-four F-4Es and crews. Some of the ground staff had stayed, to get the F-4s into shape and ready to head to their new base, Fairchild AFB, Washington, but they had left the previous day via C-130.

Now, both the CO and his acting Exec sat by a phone in MAG Ops, waiting, and both were glancing at either the office clock or their watches.

“How long, Boss?” Captain Thrace asked. She was one of those who detested waiting, and wanted to get things done, now.

“Don said he'd call,” replied the CO. “No idea when, though.” And the CO fully shared her thoughts: get this over and done with, now.

Colonel Allen Brady, the MAG-11 CO, came in. “Still here, eh?”

“Afraid so, Colonel,” Major Wiser replied. “The Air Force hasn't cut us loose just yet.”

“Well, if they don't call, I'll get your crews some lunch,” Brady said. “Meantime, I was on the phone with First Marine Air Wing. MAG-11's up for a Presidential Unit Citation, and you guys are eligible to wear the ribbon, once we get the award.”

The CO and Ops Officer looked at each other. Had an AF unit been recognized by the Marines before? After a minute, Major Wiser said, “Thanks, Colonel. When?”

“These things take about three to six months. We'll notify you through channels.” Brady said.

Both AF officers nodded. “If we can't come to the ceremony, Colonel, it's because we're busy,” Captain Thrace pointed out.

Brady nodded. “I know: either up North, down to Cuba, or wherever.” Then the phone rang. Brady himself picked it up, bypassing the Duty Officer. “MAG-11.” He looked at Major Wiser. “It's for you, Major. Van Loan.”

Major Wiser took the phone. “Go, Don.”

“Major, everyone's here. There's a tent city set up for all the TacAir types, and they expanded it for us.”

“Let me guess: us TAC guys are going to outnumber the SAC folks-on a SAC base?” Major Wiser asked.

“You got it,” Van Loan said. “The ex-VNAF guys in the 514th are here already-they still fly F-5s, and the ex-IIAF fellows got here today: they're in Phantoms, just like us. They're the 31st TFS.”

“Just one squadron?”

“Yeah, but the 450th sent the best. All ex-IIAF, and some even came from Iran after the Iran-Iraq War ended, back in '86. Anyway, all the ground guys are here, and waiting on you guys.” Van Loan said.

“All right, Don. What's the weather like right now?” The CO asked.

“Fine so far. Upper 60s, and no rain.”

“All right. Tell whoever's waiting for us we're on our way.” Major Wiser said. “See you in a few hours.”

“We'll be here,” Van Loan said.

Major Wiser then hung up. He nodded to Captain Thrace. “Showtime.”

“Get the crews together?” She asked.

“Yeah. One final brief here, then it's wheels up,” Major Wiser said. He turned to Colonel Brady and put out his hand. “Colonel, it's been a pleasure to serve under you.”

“Likewise, Major.” Brady said. “I'll get some ground people from VMFA-333 to get your birds started.”

“Thanks, Colonel,”replied the Major. He and the Ops Officer got up and headed to their briefing room, where the crews were gathered. Waiting outside were several of the experienced hands in the squadron, and his GIB, Captain Lisa Eichhorn, call sign Goalie, was one of them.

“We going, Guru?” She asked. Guru was the CO's call sign.

“The sky awaits,” Major Wiser said. “Time to head to Fairchild.”

“And leave all this?” Capt. Valerie “Sweaty” Blanchard quipped, waving her hand at the desert near the base, and the wreckage of Laredo to the south.

“When Sundown Cunningham says 'move', we move,” Captain Thrace, call sign Starbuck, said. “Just have your rain gear handy.” She was referring to the new Air Force Chief of Staff and his fearsome reputation for telling officers to get off base by sundown if they displeased him. That was no joke. The Pacific Northwest got a lot of rain, and Fairchild AFB received its share.

The CO nodded. “Let's get this over with,” and headed into the briefing room. As he did so, there was a shout, “CO on the deck!”

The Major noticed the difference between the old hands and the new guys. The squadron veterans stayed seated, while the new people shot to attention. “As you were, people! This squadron’s still at war, so we can drop the jumping up and down business.” Everyone sat down, awaiting the CO's remarks. He looked them over. Four new crews had reported to the squadron since the end in Brownsville, over a week earlier, and they were fire-eaters. The CO shook his head.

“What's up, Major?” Capt. Nathan West asked.

“Good news, people. We're going north. Today,” Major Wiser replied. There was the usual buzz in the room, as it sank in. They were finally leaving for the Canadian Theater. “The ground echelon's arrived, and we're headed that way. This is a ferry flight, but keep in mind that Fairchild is one hour's flight time away from a Soviet-held airfield, so we'll be going loaded for air-to-air.”

The crews started talking amongst themselves again. Some of the new guys perked up at the possibility of some combat, even on a ferry flight.

“Usual air-to-air load of four Sidewinders, four Sparrows, full load of 20 mike-mike, three tanks to make the trip in one hop, and our travel pods.” The Major reminded the crews. The travel pods had their own personal bags, though some had gone with the ground guys. “As for weather,” he went on, seeing he had everyone's attention, “CAVU as far as Salt Lake, though there's occasional clouds from there all the way to Fairchild. No rain, and not much wind there. Be glad for the good weather, because we'll be there for the winter, and good flying days will be a godsend.” The CO looked around. “Questions?”

“Are we going as a squadron or in flights?” One of the new guys asked.

“Flights,” the CO replied. “Once you form up after takeoff, head on north. Any others?”

“Major, what about divert fields?” Sweaty Blanchard asked.

“Good question. Divert fields are: Kirtland, Hill, Mountain Home, and if Fairchild's closed for whatever reason when we get there? Try either Spokane International or Larson AFB. I-90 will do in extremis.” Major Wiser said. He looked around. “Any other questions?” There weren't any. “All right, let's hit it.”

As the crews headed out, Major Wiser and his WSO were talking. “Goalie, you ready to go back to Fairchild?”

“No,” she replied. “I've got some SERE experiences that I'd rather not repeat for real. I was there in winter, back in my C-130 days.”

“Noted. I'm not fond of the place myself. But if Sundown says we go, go we must,” the Major said.

Two more crewers came up. 1st Lts. Kevin “Cowboy” McAllen and Toni “Nooner” Grey were their wingmates. “Anything special, Guru?” Cowboy asked.

“No. Just treat it as we've always done. Even if it's a redeployment.”

“Fine by me, Major,” Nooner replied.

It didn't take long for the crews to get ready, and as they left the building for the last time, the Marines who they had served with were clapping. Some slapped their AF colleagues on the back, while others shook hands. Despite interservice rivalry, friendships had been made, and it would be a while at least before there was a reunion. And when Guru and Goalie got to their aircraft, 512, Colonel Brady and VMFA-333's CO, Major Joe Putnam, were waiting. “Colonel?” Major Wiser asked.

“Just wanted to see you guys off, one last time,” Brady said, shaking Guru's hand.

“Thanks very much, Colonel,” Guru replied. “Joe,” he said, shaking Putnam's hand.

“For a bunch of Air Force pukes, you guys drove Double-Ugly like you stole it,” Putnam replied. He turned to Goalie in his Cajun accent. “You keep this guy alive, you hear? He needs to be at the reunion.”

“I'll do that,” Goalie said, turning to her pilot and grinning.

Both pilot and WSO did their preflight, and climbed into their cockpits. Putnam's ground crews proved to be just as efficient as their 335th counterparts, and soon, twenty-four F-4s were fired up and ready to taxi. After contacting the tower, Guru and Cowboy taxied to the end of the runway, ready to take off.

“Final checklist complete,” Goalie said. “Canopy down?

“Canopy coming down, Guru said, pulling the front canopy down and locking it, and seeing Goalie do the same. Then a green light came from the tower. Clear for takeoff. Guru then released the brakes and tore down the runway, with Cowboy behind him, and both Phantoms were quickly airborne. After Cowboy formed on him, Guru used hand signals to tell him to follow. And both F-4s set course for Fairchild AFB. With the rest of the squadron following behind. It would be a four-hour flight.


Near Fairchild AFB, WA, 1215 Hours Pacific War Time, 12 October, 1989:

The flight from Laredo to Fairchild had been long, and for both Guru and Goalie, boring. After climbing out from Laredo to their assigned altitude of 24,000 feet, and occasionally checking in with AWACS or, as they crossed from Colorado into Utah, civilian ATC at Salt Lake City, there really wasn't much to the flight. Though Guru had looked down on New Mexico and Colorado from their altitude, and Goalie could tell, even from the back seat, that her pilot still had some memories of his E&E that he wanted to keep to himself. She knew it was only natural-and only someone who'd been through a similar experience could understand what he'd seen and done. But once they'd flown past the Rockies, Guru had become much more chatty on the intercom, she was pleased to see.

Now, as they approached Fairchild, it was back to AWACS. And their radio crackled. “Firebird One-One, Buckeye. How copy?”

“Buckeye, Firebird One-One,” Guru called back. “Read you five by.”

“Copy that, Firebird. Welcome to the Northern Theater. This ain't Texas, fella.”

“Roger that, Buckeye,” Guru replied. “Steering to destination?”

“Copy. Your vector is two-nine-zero, Firebird.”

“Roger, two-nine-zero, Buckeye, and thank you,” Guru called. After contacting the tower for landing instructions, he brought his two-ship in. As he taxied to their dispersal area, right behind the “Follow Me” truck, Guru noticed the lack of B-52s. Apart from those sitting nuclear alert, there were only four Buffs on the ramp. EASTERN EXPRESS, he knew. Those guys went right into the Bear's Den, and had done some crazy things, or so he'd heard. After being directed to their dispersal area, Guru was waved into a basic shelter-similar to those used in Southeast Asia, and saw Don Van Loan waiting. He shut down, popped his canopy, and waved Van Loan over. “Don! So you guys made it.”

“That we did, Boss. Welcome to not-so-sunny Fairchild,” Van Loan replied.

Guru and Goalie got out of 512, and Tech Sergeant Mike Crowley, his crew chief, came over. “Anything 512 needs, Major?”

“No, Sergeant,” Guru replied. “Get her refueled, because we may have something tomorrow-like theater indoctrination, and if it's like what we did out of Williams, we may run into somebody.”

“You got it, Major.”

Guru nodded, and went over to the port travel pod. He unloaded his bag, and the AKMS that he'd brought out of the mountains. That was his personal weapon when on base, come hell or high water. Goalie did the same on her end, pulling out a CAR-15. “So, Don,” Guru asked Van Loan, “who do we belong to?”

“The old Yokata base wing-the 475th. It's now a TFW, and we're now TDY to them. Along with the 514th TFS: the ex-VNAF guys with their F-5s, and the 31st TFS, who are all ex-IIAF and their F-4s,” Van Loan told his CO.

Guru nodded as he left the TAB-V shelter, with Goalie and Van Loan. “Who's the Wing CO?”

“Hear the name Colonel Bill Austin?” Van Loan asked.

“Heard about him,” Goalie said. “A-10 driver, right?”

“Ex-A-10 driver,” Van Loan said. “He won a MOH at Wichita: killed 23 tanks all by his lonesome, and brought back his Hog so badly shot up it never flew again. They sent him on some War Bond tour, and now he's back flying real fighters.”

“Guess we better pay him a call,” Guru said. “Where's Wing HQ?”

“I'll take you guys there. Just a bunch of office trailers. The SAC guys got all the permanent facilities-it's their base, after all, and we little TAC boys and girls get the short end of the stick,” Van Loan told his CO.

“Figures,” Guru said. “And we're in tents, right?” He saw his Exec nod, and shook his head.

Van Loan took them to the Wing HQ, and it was an office trailer, just as he said. “Not much, Boss; this wing got thrown together starting last week, and there's not much in the way of staff; just him, his Exec, a few NCOs, and enlisted. We're supposed to get everyone else over the coming week.”

Goalie was surprised. “What?”

“That was what Colonel Austin said, when he got here,” Van Loan said. “At least, that's what he told me.”

Guru nodded, then put his bags down next to the trailer. “Wait here, guys,” and Goalie and Van Loan nodded, as did two who'd followed them: Cowboy and Nooner. Then he went and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” a voice inside said. Guru opened the door and went in. There, he found a red-haired Colonel, several NCOs and enlisted airmen moving about, and things just plain in a mess. Then the Colonel caught his eye. “You must be Major Wiser.”

“Sir.” Major Wiser said, saluting. “335th TFS reporting for duty.”

“Bill Austin, Major, call sign Taz,” the Colonel said, shaking his hand.

“Taz, Sir?”

“Yeah, When I flew A-10s, I ate tanks like the Tasmanian Devil,” Austin quipped. “It stuck, so...you're Guru, right?”

“Yes, Sir. That's what happens when a History Major becomes a fighter driver,” Major Wiser replied.

“Well, come on into the office. Not much, I'm afraid.” Austin said. He escorted Guru into his office, and an AF-issue desk, a couple of folding chairs, and a file cabinet was the extent of the furniture. If this was what Wing had, Guru knew he'd be lucky to have a tent for his squadron’s offices. They had done it before: at Cannon and Bergstrom.

“Have a seat, Major.” Austin said. “Tenth Force sent me a copy of your squadron’s record.” He looked over a file on his desk. “Pretty impressive.”

Guru nodded. “Thank you, Sir. Not just my credit: two other squadron commanders laid the foundation. I just picked up where they left off. Not my choice, though.”

“So it says here. I know about the Carson affair, and that's water under the bridge.” Austin said. “Now, things up here are pretty loose, just like in Tenth Air Force-or Ninth, where I was, but it's kinda like the early days: too many folks deploying, and not enough to go around.” Austin said.

“We'll manage, Sir,” Major Wiser said.

“Good. Now, you're flying with the 31st TFS, the ex-IIAF guys, and the 514th, former VNAF. The 31st has F-4s, but 514 has F-5s. We're expecting a Weasel detachment and a recon detachment next week, and maybe we'll get things organized enough by then to be declared operational.”

“Yes, Sir,” the Major nodded. He knew that “maybe” was the operative word.

“All right: just three more things, then you guys can get yourselves situated. First: any, well, 'moonlight requisitioning' expeditions? Tell your scroungers the following: No felony arrests, no one gets hurt, and best of all, just plain don't get caught.” Austin told the Major.

“I understand, Sir,” Major Wiser said. “Nothing new there.”

“Very good. Now, I'm well aware of the antics of a certain Captain Thrace. Any truth to those?” Austin wanted to know.

“Sir, a lot of the stories about her combat prowess are quite true,” Major Wiser stated. “However, those about her off-duty escapades are, well....highly exaggerated.”

Austin laughed. “But some are quite truthful, I assume?” And he saw the Major nod, reluctantly. “Just so I know who I'm dealing with. Lastly, you guys can start flying tomorrow. Not combat, mind, but your theater indoctrination rides.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Just clear your flight plans with me, and avoid combat if possible.”

Guru nodded. “Is that all, sir?”

“For now,” Austin nodded. “I'll see you tomorrow, when you bring your flight plans. Get situated, get some food in you and your people, and rest up.”

“Sir.”


Goalie, Van Loan, Cowboy, and Nooner were outside the trailer, waiting. Then Guru came out. “Well?” Van Loan asked.

“Tell Ross: get the scroungers out tonight. No felony arrests, no one gets hurt, and best of all: nobody gets caught. We'll need the stuff they get, no doubt about it.” Guru said.

“Will do.”

Guru picked up his things, and said, “Let's get billeted. We can start some theater indoctrination flights tomorrow, but no combat. Not for at least a week.”

“Who do we clear them with?” Goalie asked. One of her jobs as senior WSO was to help with getting new crew members integrated into the squadron. And that included theater indoctrination.

“Colonel Austin. Right now, there's no Wing Ops staff,” Guru said, and he saw both Goalie's and Van Loan's jaws drop.

“Shoestring wing again?” Van Loan asked.

“You got it: too many units deploying up here, not enough assets to go around, and so on. Just like the early days.” Guru told his Exec.

“Wonderful.”

“Just get everyone squared away. Find the chow tent, get people fed, and then bedded down. We'll be busy in the morning,” Major Wiser said.



335th TFS Operations Tent, Fairchild AFB, WA; 14 October, 1989: 0800 Pacific War Time.


Major Wiser looked over at his assembled aircrews. They had been supposed to start their theater indoctrination flights the day before, but new arrivals, along with the ongoing EASTERN EXPRESS effort, had prevented that. Not only had the TAC unit that had been at Fairchild since the early days, the 51st TFW, which had redeployed from Korea, been busy, but someone had decided to move another unit to the base from Larson AFB in Central Washington, the 343rd TFW. They had been run out of Alaska with exactly four F-16s and four A-10s left, and after being rebuilt, had returned to the fight. So, with the move, the new arrivals had been left on the ground. And they had used the time to get settled in, and turn loose their “scroungers” to get what their respective units needed. But today, Colonel Austin had summoned his squadron commanders to his office trailer, and given them the word: theater indoctrination begins today.

For Major Wiser, along with his two counterparts, Major Nguyen Van Tran, who commanded the 514th TFS, and Major Ali Mostafari, who had the 31st, it meant their squadrons could finally see where they'd be flying. And all three CO s had gone to inform their crews.

“Okay, people!” Major Wiser said to his squadron. “We have our theater indoctrination rides today. Wheels up beginning at 0900. Either two-ships or four-ships, at flight leaders' discretion. Stay away from the west side of the Canadian Rockies-that's the front lines in B.C., and you'll be fine.”

“What's the bad guys like?” Captain Thrace wanted to know.

“Good question. Right now, they're at the end of a very long supply line-about as bad as the guys in Texas had, and one thing they are in short supply of is jet fuel. But the MiGs have been active, so they've been in a conservation mode. But if this push folks are saying is coming does happen, there'll be enough for everybody.” He looked over his crews. Four crews had never seen combat, and he could tell their eyes were lighting up at the prospect of a MiG encounter-even on a milk run. “No -29s, but -23s and -21s. If we go deep-like Edmonton, say, expect MiG-25s and maybe even -31s from Voyska PVO.”

Pilots and WSOs looked at each other. MiG-31s? Those things could track you in the weeds, so the SAC guys said. The doppler break used to counter F-15s worked just as well against the Foxhound, or at least that was what Intel said. Captain Eichhorn nodded. “What about SAMs?”

“Just getting to that,” Major Wiser said. “Near the front lines, it's the usual suspects: SA-6, -8, -11. A few, and I mean few, SA-15s have been reported. No, this doesn't come from Wing, as we don't have a Wing Intel shop set up yet, but the guys from the 51st have been sharing what they know. All of what we have comes from them.” The CO paused, then went on. “Deeper, it's SA-2, -3, and, hold your breakfast, because we've never encountered them, even down south, SA-5.”

“That's a Voyska PVO system, Boss,” 1st Lt. Darren Licon, the Squadron Intelligence Officer, said.

“Yeah, and guess who's handling their rear-area air defense? The very same Voyska PVO guys,” Major Wiser replied. “Same guys who fly the MiG-31s. Now, your ECM pods should handle the SA-5 radar, but remember: against a maneuvering target, they're pretty much useless. Use your chaff, do a SAM break, and you should be fine. Anything else?”

“Weather, boss?” Sweaty Blanchard asked.

“Partly cloudy or partly sunny, depending on who you talk to,” the Major quipped, and there was a good laugh. “This ain't Texas, people, so perfect flying weather is not going to happen. Things will be 'fair to good' on average, they told us, but if it's raining, forget it.” The CO paused again, then looked at his people. “One more thing: there is talk of a possible cease-fire. Nothing more than that, but if you hear AWACS give this code over the radio: 'Break: Ohio, Ohio, Ohio, Break', that means it's over. Done, finis, the end, call it what you will.”

There were a lot of grins as the Major said that. Maybe, just maybe, they'll call it a day before we do things for real. Though the four crews who had not seen combat were hoping they'd get a chance to get their licks in.

“That it, Boss?” Van Loan asked.

“Just a reminder: NO trolling for MiGs, people! We've had people jumped before doing these kind of rides, when Mr. MiG comes looking for us,” the CO said, looking at Starbuck. “So if a MiG driver wants to get one more before they call it quits? Let him come looking for trouble: we'll make sure he finds it,” Major Wiser reminded everyone. “And you new people? Stick to your wingmates. Is that understood?”

“YES, SIR!” Everyone shouted.

“Good. Let's hit it.”


1045 Hours Pacific War Time: over Kinbasket Lake, British Columbia:


Guru and Goalie were leading Cowboy and Nooner over a large lake in British Columbia, and to Guru, the surrounding terrain reminded him of Colorado. He said as much to Goalie, who remarked that they hadn't yet been briefed on the Canadian Resistance, something that might come in handy down the line. “Shoestring wing again,” Guru had replied. “Want to bet this all got laid on so fast, they haven't had time to get much of anything?”

“Not arguing that,” Goalie replied. “Pretty country, though.”

“This might be a good place to visit-once the war's over and done,” Guru said. He saw another flight of F-4s off in the distance, and had a good idea who they were. “Mustang Three-One, Firebird One-One.”

“Firebird, Mustang. Go,” It was Starbuck.

“Mustang, ever think you'd be grateful for a milk run?” Guru said.

“Boss, you're spot on,” Kara replied. “The newbies, though, they're chomping at the bit. No radars, no MiG calls, nothing.”

“Mustang, Firebird,” Guru replied. “When you get back on the ground, remind those fire-eaters that they haven't missed a thing.”

“Copy that,” Starbuck said. “Even if I have to beat it into them.”

Then Goalie interrupted the conversation. “Guru, come left. Front lines dead ahead.”

“Roger that,” Guru replied. He then called his wingman. “Cowboy, Guru. Stay with me.”

“On your six, Boss,” Cowboy called back.

Firebird flight then turned southwest, just as Mustang flight turned south. Then the call came from the AWACS.

“Teaball on Guard to all airborne aircraft. Break, Ohio, Ohio, Ohio, Break.”

Hearing that call, heads perked up in cockpits. “Guru, did you hear that?” Goalie said.

“I heard,” Guru replied.

“Firebird One-One, Mustang Three-One, did you copy that last?” Kara asked.

“Roger that, Mustang,” Guru replied. “Stand by one. Will authenticate.”

“Standing by, Firebird.”

“Teaball, Firebird One-One, please repeat your last,” Guru called the AWACS.

“Firebird, Teaball. Roger that. Ohio, Ohio, Ohio,” the AWACS controller responded.

“Teaball, Firebird. Alpha, Seven, Mike,” Guru called, giving the authenticator code that would verify the AWACS transmission.

“Firebird, Teaball, Roger, Copy,” responded the controller. “Victor, Eight, November.”

In her cockpit, Goalie was checking her copy of the authenticator code. “Guru, that's valid.”

“Verified,” Guru said. He'd checked it himself. “Copy that, Teaball, and thank you.”

In her F-4, Kara was grinning under her oxygen mask. She'd heard the CO give the request, and copied the response. Both had checked out. “Firebird, Mustang...”

“Mustang, Firebird, It's valid. And you know what that means?” Guru asked.

“Copy that, It's over!” Kara was practically hollering over the radio.

Guru took a deep breath under his own mask. It was over, and he had survived. So many of his prewar squadron mates hadn't. And the attrition had included two previous squadron commanders. He was interrupted by Goalie shouting on the intercom, “Guru, we made it!”

“That we did,” he replied. “Stand by one. Teaball, Firebird One-One, request vector direct Fairchild.”

“Roger that. Your vector is one-six-five.” The Controller replied.

“One-six-five,” Guru said. “Copy that, and thank you.” He then called Cowboy and Nooner. “Two, Lead. On me. Let's go home.”

“Firebird, Mustang, right behind you.” Kara called. And the impromptu six-ship headed back to the border, and then Fairchild.

When they got there, and made a pass over the field, it was clear that a major celebration was breaking out. Guru wondered to Goalie if they'd be able to talk to a tower operator, but so far, at least those folks were sticking to their posts. “Fairchild Tower, Firebird One-One with two, request landing instructions.”

“Firebird One-One, clear for landing, Winds are two-five-zero at five.”

“Copy that, Fairchild Tower.” Guru called back. And he led his two-ship in for their last landing (they hoped) in a combat zone. Just after taxiing off the runway, Kara brought her flight in. As they taxied to their dispersal area, the ground crews were cheering. When they taxied into their revetments and shut down, the ground crew practically charged the aircraft and nearly threw the crew ladders onto the planes. Guru and Goalie got down, into the waiting ground crew, and their crew chief was waiting.

“Sergeant,” Guru said. “We made it!”

“That we did, Major!” Crowley said, handing both Major Wiser and Captain Eichhorn a bottle of champagne. “Ross found some, in case you're asking.”

“Let me guess,” Goalie said, “He told the scroungers to get what we need for a cease-fire celebration.”

“You'd have to ask him, Ma'am,” Sergeant Crowley replied.

“And he did good,” Major Wiser said. “Here goes.” He popped the cork and sprayed his WSO, who returned the favor! And the ground crew got some splashed on them as well. Then Kara came over with her flight, and everyone was spraying everyone else, in between taking a swallow from the bottle. While they were doing so, a staff car pulled up, and someone tapped Major Wiser on the shoulder. “What?”

“Base commander, Sir,” the airman said.

“Oh, shit....” Major Wiser said. He walked towards the car, and saw Brig. Gen. Allen Shipley, the base commander, and a B-52 driver of the old school, step out. He came towards the Major, who came to attention and saluted. “Sir,”

“Major,” General Shipley replied, returning the salute. “I see your squadron’s celebration is in full swing.”

“Yes, Sir. Wars only end once,” the Major replied with a grin.

“I know,” Shipley replied. “Anyway, keep the, well, excesses to a minimum, if possible. No felony arrests, and stay away from any happy fire. I want the base left standing when all's said and done.”

“Yes, Sir,” Major Wiser grinned. “Though, Sir, I imagine that the celebration will do more damage than Ivan ever did.”

General Shipley sighed. “That's what I'm afraid of. But, you're probably right. Still, try and keep things...reasonable, Major.”

“We'll try, Sir,” Major Wiser replied. “But, General, if you don't mind my saying, this is going to make V-J Day look like a church social.”

General Shipley sighed again. “Major, you're not the first to tell me that.” He looked at the Major, and the fighter crews in the background. Even the B-52 crews still on base and not on alert were out getting crazy. “Carry on, Major.”

The Major nodded, saluted, and went back to the dispersal area, leaving the General shaking his head and getting back into his car. When Guru got back, he found Van Loan, Sweaty Blanchard, and several others, waiting. “Well, what'd the base CO have to say?” Van Loan asked.

“Keep the excesses to a minimum, if possible,” Guru said. “No felony arrests, stay away from any 'happy fire', and try and leave the base standing when all's said and done.”

“Easier said than done, Boss,” Van Loan reminded his CO, glancing at Kara and several others.

“Yeah, and he knows it, too.” Guru replied. He looked at those assembled. “If you got splashed with champagne, before heading over to the Club, take a shower! This stuff is sticky as hell.” There was a laugh at that. Then he surveyed his squadron again and raised his bottle. “Before we go, I'd like to propose a toast: To those who've gone before us. They didn't live to see this day, but they helped make it happen.”

“Hear, hear,” Sweaty said, raising her own bottle.

After the toast, Guru had one more. “One more toast, then get yourselves cleaned up. Ten years from now, if some snot-nosed reporter or stuffy academic asks you 'What were you feeling when the war ended?' Well, you can tell them this: Fuck You, Ivan! WE WON!”


Officer's Club, Fairchild AFB, WA: 1600 Pacific War Time, 14 October, 1989:


After cleaning up, and checking in with Colonel Austin, who happily told Guru that there would be no flying for at least three days, Guru had headed on over to the Officer's Club, as had just about every aircrew member and ground officer. He'd left a couple of the more hot-headed newbies as squadron duty officers, to remind them that contrary to what they'd thought, they hadn't missed a thing. When Guru got there, he found Goalie and Sweaty at the bar, and he came up. “Ladies,”

“Guru,” Goalie replied with a wink and smile. She saw Sweaty nod.

He looked around and saw that practically everyone had a drink in hand. “Let me guess: the plan is to drink this place dry, then?”

“Right about that, Boss,” Sweaty replied. “This place is going to look like what happens when those Army chopper girls get finished.” She was referring to an all-female Army attack helicopter unit called the Cobra Chicks, who flew AH-1S Cobras, and not only had made a fearsome reputation on the battlefield, but also for their off-duty antics, which got quite...antic.

“No doubt about that,” Guru replied. He waved the bartender over. “Sam Adams.”

The bartender nodded, and handed Guru a bottle. “Here you go, Major.”

Guru paid him, then nodded at the entrance to the bar. “Colonel Austin coming. Barkeep, one for the Colonel.”

Hearing that, Austin came up. “Never turn down a free beer,” he said. “Thanks, Major.”

“So, Colonel, when can we head back to Seymour-Johnson?” Guru asked.

“Nothing new on that. Eleventh Air Force won't have that until next week, earliest,” Austin said. “That's your home station, right?”

The three 335th fliers nodded.

“Hey, I understand, I'm waiting on going back to Myrtle Beach. I was in the 354th originally,” Austin said. He looked over at the pool table and saw a blonde female Captain already working the table. “Is that Captain Thrace?”

“It is, Colonel,” Guru replied. “A word of warning: Do not play pool with her unless it's a friendly.”

“She's that dangerous?” Austin asked.

“She is, Sir,” Goalie said. “So much that nobody from the 335th will play with her. Marines, though, they took the challenge. And lost a lot more than they won.”

“I bet,” Austin said. Just then, the other two squadron CO s came in, Majors Tran and Mostafairi. They came over.

“Colonel, Major,” Tran said.

“Tran, Mostafari,” Major Wiser said, then he introduced the two female officers to the pair. That was something both had taken some time in getting used to, but Mostafari had a couple of female aircrew in his unit now, who had fled to America as teenagers, and had joined the Air Force when the war began. Tran's unit had several female aircrew as well.

“So, Major, waiting on going home?” Tran asked.

“Yeah. Back to Seymour-Johnson, North Carolina. You?” Guru replied.

“Southern California: I live in Thousand Oaks. I was with Northrop working on the F-5 program when it all started.” Tran said. He turned to Mostafairi. “And you?”

“Pasadena, California for me,” the ex-IIAF pilot said. “I, too, worked for Northrop. I was dual-qualified in the F-4 and F-5 back in Iran, and when I came over in '79, Northrop offered me a job based on my F-5 experience.”

“Why not McAir?” Goalie asked.

“Well, with the F-4 program winding down, but the F-5 still in demand, it was an easy choice,” Mostafari said. “Now, I imagine I'll have to qualify on the F-20.”

“I, too,” Tran said. “If they hadn't sent us up here, we were going to transition to the F-20.”

“Nasty little birds,” Sweaty quipped. “Small, nimble, and deadly.” She remembered General Yeager's demo tour-and the DACT that had resulted.

“They are that,” Tran agreed.

Major Wiser nodded, then shook hands with both Tran and Mostafari. “See you guys later. Right now, food beckons.”

“Ah, yes,” Mostafari nodded. “It's not just 'Drink and be merry, it's Eat, Drink, and Be Merry,'”

“Yep,” Guru said. “For tomorrow they may not tell us from the rest of the aircraft. Happy celebrating,”

“You too, Major,” Mostafari said, and Tran nodded.


Later, most of the 335th officers had gathered around several tables. To everyone's pleasure, real hamburgers, hot dogs, and steak had appeared. Despite rationing, the military generally had what it needed, but beef was still a precious commodity, with chicken, turkey, bison, and even soy, being used in burgers. Not tonight. “Only the real stuff,” the waitresses had said. Even though two burgers was the limit per person, people were digging in.

“Now,” Goalie said, “what's the strangest thing you've seen tonight?”

“How about several B-52 guys swinging from light fixtures?” Don Van Loan quipped.

Guru nodded at that. “How about this? I stepped outside a while ago for some fresh air, and saw a bunch of guys on top of a hangar.”

“What were they doing?” Sweaty asked.

“Damned if I know,” Guru said, in between bites of his first cheeseburger of the night. “But it was a banner big enough that a satellite could read from orbit.”

Hearing that, Kara wondered, “What would they be saying?”

“How about this?” Nathan West, call sign Hoser, said. “Screw you, Ivan, or something even more vulgar, direct, and to the point.”

“No doubt there,” Sweaty quipped. She turned to the CO. “Maybe somebody heard you, Boss, and decided to show Ivan.”

Guru laughed. “If they did, Sweaty, I won't complain. Hell, I'd give 'em a hand, if they asked for it.”

“Same here,” Kara said.

The CO looked at Kara. “Now, Captain, how many of these SAC clods have you cleaned out so far?”

Kara looked at her CO with a “who, me?” expression. “Major, you know me.”

“Yes, Kara, I do,” Guru shot back. “How many Buff drivers have you cleaned out?”

“Hardly any of 'em have been here,” She replied.

“That's good.”

“Only half of the guys in the 343rd,” Kara said matter of factly.

“Oh, no.” Guru put his palm to his face. “Those guys don't know what they're in for.”

“Their fault for not asking,” Goalie quipped. “Let them learn-the hard way.”

Major Wiser nodded. “All right, Kara. Just be warned: if someone beats you, it's not an excuse to tear the place down, understood?”

“Sure thing, boss.” Kara replied.

“And one more thing: if a Buff driver does challenge you?”

“Yes?”

Guru looked at her with all seriousness. “Clean him or her out. Let these SAC clowns know how we do things in TAC.”

Kara let out an evil grin. “Yes, Sir.”



Fairchild AFB Officer's Club: 2130 Hours Pacific War Time


Major Wiser looked at the bottle of beer on the table. It was his sixth, and right there, he decided, his last for the night. The Major then turned his attention to the big-screen TV in the corner, and it was showing CNN's coverage of the nationwide cease-fire celebrations. From Boston to Seattle, Philadelphia to San Francisco, Chicago to Atlanta, and Miami to El Paso, the whole country was out getting crazy, or so it seemed. Even in communities on the outskirts of the nuclear blast zones were in the mood, and the President had even made an address to the nation, reminding them that though victory in North America had been secured, there was still unfinished business with the North Koreans and Cubans, but that shouldn't put a damper on the day's events. The whole country had earned the victory, and a right to celebrate. Then the camera cut away to the Boston waterfront, where a hastily arranged fireworks show had kicked off, and on a split screen, residents of Oklahoma City were taking the ALA flags that had flown over the city during the occupation, and were throwing them into bonfires, while Gus Hall, the President of the Collaborationist Government, was being hung in effigy.

“What happened to that SOB? “ Goalie asked, coming up to Guru.

“Nobody knows,” he replied. “They say he never arrived in Cuba-if he did, he'd be on Cuban TV.”

“So where is he?”

“Either at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico, feeding the fish, or he did a Bermuda Triangle.” Guru deadpanned.

Sweaty had overheard that remark. “If he did that, then I pity the poor aliens who have to listen to his garbage.”

Both Guru and Goalie laughed at that. “Imagine if they did get him....I bet they'd want to throw him back. You know, like if a fisherman catches one too small,” Guru said.

“ET, you can keep him,” Goalie laughed.

“And if somebody did splash his plane?” Guru said, “He or she just got a one-grade promotion.”



Later, Guru had an idea. He turned to Goalie. “I've had enough beers. Let's adjourn to someplace more private, and have a more...heated, celebration.”

“Like when Brownsville folded?” Goalie smiled.

“Like that.”

“Then, my dear Major, lead the way,” she replied.

Nodding, Guru got up and went to the bar. He paid the bartender for his and Goalie's drinks, then he and Goalie staggered out the front door. It was a clear night, and every few minutes, colored flares shot into the sky from atop the base water tower. Not to be outdone, the spotlights on the control tower were shining up, while on the base perimeter, occasional bursts of tracer fire could be seen, directed up into the sky. And the sounds of revelry could be heard all over.

“What'd you say to the base CO?” Goalie asked.

“Simple: wars only end once.” Guru replied. He saw the lights of a B-52 on final approach. “Want to bet those guys don't know it's over?”

“EASTERN EXPRESS guys? I bet they don't.”

They staggered down the street, and found the tent city where all the TAC people were billeted. The duo slowly walked to where their squadron had its tents, and found the CO's tent. The duo went in, and wondered if they could set a record for getting out of their clothes. Before doing that, Guru found something he'd kept from their last R&R in Las Vegas: A “Do Not Disturb” sign from the MGM Grand.
He hung it outside the door to the tent, and came back in.

As he did, Guru saw that Goalie had already shed her flight suit, along with everything else she was wearing. “Well?” she asked.

“Let's go,” he replied as she came closer and unzipped his flight suit. And things went from there.


Fairchild AFB, WA: 0930 Hours Pacific War Time, 15 October, 1989:

There was an incessant knocking. Guru slowly came awake, careful not to wake Goalie, who was still asleep in the camp bed. How many times did they do it, before they fell asleep, he wondered. Enough, Guru knew. He got up and instead of putting on his flight suit, he found a raincoat. “Just a minute,” he said. One thing, this knocking isn't doing good for this headache, he thought. Then he got to the door and opened it. It was Master Sergeant Ross, and he was in his dress blues. “Sergeant?”

“Good morning, Major!” Ross said.

“Quiet, Sergeant,” Guru said, looking back at Goalie. She had turned around in bed, and her chest and abdomen were....prominently displayed.

“I see, Sir,” Ross said. “I hope the two of you had a....heated celebration?”

“That we did, Sergeant,” Guru said. “What's with the dress uniform?”

“Just going into Spokane, Sir. Got to check and see if any of our guys need to be bailed out.” Ross replied. He handed the CO a thermos. “For you, and Captain Eichhorn, Sir. I figured the CO would need some coffee after last night.”

“Sergeant, you are a mind reader,” Guru said. “All right; find out if anyone's in need, and get them bailed out. Is the base still standing?” He looked around in his stupor and couldn't really tell.

“Yes, Sir, but the base commander was by here earlier, shaking his head,” Ross said. “Never seen a General with that kind of frail expression on his face before.”

“He's probably wondering what he'd done to deserve this,” Guru replied. “Thanks for the coffee, Sergeant. Most everyone on this base is probably looking for some right now.”

“You and the Captain need it more than I do, Sir.”

“Okay, Sergeant, get going. We'll still be here,” said Guru.

Ross looked past his CO and saw Captain Eichhorn, well, fast asleep and fully displayed on the bed. “Drunk, laid, and parlayed, Sir.”

“So is most of this base,” the Major pointed out.

Nodding, Ross saluted, then went on his way. Guru went back into the tent, and poured himself a cup. The caffeine jolt hit him, and he certainly needed it. He was on his second cup when Goalie sat up in bed, and the sheets slid off. “Is that coffee?”

“Here,” Guru said, pouring her a cup and handing it to her. “Go back to sleep if you want. Nobody's doing much of anything today.”

“I'll do that,” she replied, draining the cup as she did so. “What's that line from a M*A*S*H episode? 'You know how you feel after drinking cheap booze and eating chili dogs?'”

“I know. And Potter replies, 'Yeah?'”

“I wish I felt that good.” Goalie said, laying back down on the bed.

Nodding, Guru looked around. “I'm gonna take a shower and get some breakfast, I'll bring back something for you. Interested?”

“I'm not getting out of this bed until I feel human again,” she replied. “Just bring me something edible.”

Guru got his shower kit and went off to get a hot shower. He noticed that quite a few others had slept in, and were in the same need of a shower as he was. He also figured the base must have set some kind of record for one-night stands. After his shower, he went back to the tent, where Goalie was fast asleep. Careful not to wake her, he got into a fresh flight suit, shaved, and went out to breakfast. He had just cleared the tent city when Don Van Loan pulled up in a Hummer. “Don.”

“Major, want a lift to the club for breakfast? The mess tent's still closed.”

“I was headed there anyway,” Guru said as he got in. “Have a fun night?”

Van Loan smiled. “Me and Sweaty? You bet we did. How about you and Goalie?”

Guru looked at his Exec. “I think we set a personal record for how many times we did it in one night.”

“Just like me and Sweaty,” Van Loan said as the Hummer went past the dispersal area and the flight line to the Officer's Club.

“They even close?” Guru asked.

“They closed about 0400,” Van Loan said as he parked the Hummer “Now they're open for food only-I bet everyone drank the place dry,”

Guru nodded as the two went inside. There, he found several other 335th people having breakfast, including Cowboy, Hoser, and several others. “Mind if we join you guys?” Guru asked.

“No problem, Major,” Cowboy said. “If it's on the menu, it's available. No ration coupons this morning.”

“To be grateful for,” Guru said as the waitress came over. “Coffee first, Miss. And did you guys run out of steak last night?”

“Still got some left, Major,” the blonde replied. He looked her over. She was too old to be in uniform.

“Good. Steak and eggs breakfast for me. And can you guys fix an order to go?”

She nodded, “Sure thing, Major, what'll it be?”

“Sausage and eggs breakfast and coffee.”

Van Loan looked at his CO, who said, “I promised Goalie I'd bring her something edible.”

“No problem, Major,” the waitress replied, and she went off to get the coffee.

“So, Don, where'd you get the Hummer?” Guru asked. “Or do I want to know?”

“Ross and the, uh, scroungers got hold of it,” the Exec said. “I didn't ask, and they didn't say where.”

“Let me guess: 'in confusion, there is profit,' or something like that.”

“Where'd you hear that line?” Van Loan asked.

“The movie Operation Petticoat, you know, the one with Cary Grant and Tony Curtis.” Guru replied.

Van Loan nodded as the waitress brought the coffee. “One piece of advice, Major,”

Guru looked at his Exec, and he could tell the Exec was very serious. “What?”

“Don't look in the bar just yet.”

“What? “ The CO got up and headed that way. “Don, if there's something you're trying to hide....”

Van Loan and Hoser West looked at each other. They wondered what their CO's reaction to the sight would be.

“If this is...” Guru stopped as he saw what was on the bar. A quite nude Kara Thrace, laid out, unconscious. He put his palm to his face and muttered, “Oh, shit.” He turned to Van Loan. “What happened?”

“Well, uh,” the Exec said. “Just before I left with Sweaty, she got drunk, stood up on the bar, and stripped down. Then she hustled two B-52 guys at the pool table. The story is that they had lost their shirts at a poker game, and they were trying to get some money back at the pool table. They lost, and well....”

“Let me guess: they paid their debt, but a way that would make a born-again preacher blush,” commented the CO. “They found a closet or someplace semi-private, and....”

“That's about it,” Van Loan said.

“All right, find her flight suit and get her semi-dressed. And start filling her up with coffee,” Guru ordered. He turned to the barkeep. “Got a phone handy?”The bartender nodded and handed him one. Guru called the squadron's office tent.

“335th, Lieutenant Kirby,” 1st Lt. Brad Kirby was one of the new guys, fresh from the RTU. And one likely reason he was still on duty was that he was from some town near Salt Lake City.

“Brad, this is Guru. Find Sergeant Crandall-I'd rather have Ross, but he's in town. Get him over to the O-Club with a vehicle, now. He's bringing Captain Thrace back.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And find one of the female officers, if you can. Crandall may need the help.” Guru said. “And make it snappy, before the base commander shows up.”

“Yes, Sir!”

After dressing Kara, and making sure her wallet with her winnings was still in one of her flight suit pockets, they took her over to their table. And the waitress understood: more coffee. It didn't take long before Kara came to semi-consciousness.

“Kara?” Major Wiser asked.

“Major....so I'm not dead?' She replied.

“No, but you're an advertisement for the walking dead,” Guru said. He handed her a full coffee cup. Drink, Captain.”

“Major, don't say 'drink,'” Kara moaned.

“Just start guzzling coffee, Captain,” Guru said. “That's an order.”

She nodded, and slowly began to sip the coffee. “One I'll be glad to obey.”

Then 1st Lt. Toni “Nooner” Grey came in. She was Cowboy's WSO. “Major, Sergeant Crandall's outside with a Hummer.”

“Good,” the CO said, turning to Cowboy. “You and Nooner, take Kara to that Hummer. Nooner, when you get to the squadron area, get Kara into her tent and see if her tentmates are anything resembling consciousness. If they are, tell 'em to fill her with black coffee. If not, just let the whole bunch sleep.”

Cowboy and Nooner understood. They took Kara out to the waiting Hummer, and left just as a staff car pulled up. It was General Shelby, the base commander. He came into the club and shook his head. And the 335th people looked on in amazement as Cowboy came back in and gave a thumbs-up to the Major.

“What do you think's going through his head?” Van Loan wondered aloud as Shelby left.

“Probably asking somebody upstairs what he'd done to deserve this,” Guru said. Just then, the waitress brought their order, and the CO and Exec dug in. After they finished, the waitress brought Guru's take-out order for Goalie, and Van Loan had also ordered one for Sweaty, and they headed back to the squadron area. Guru went into his tent and found Goalie still asleep. He left the food on the table, and headed to the office tent, where Brad Kirby was still there. “Brad.”

“Major, Sergeant Ross called. A few of our guys needed to get bailed out, and he's on his way back,” Kirby said.

“Anything serious?

“No, Sir, Ross said.” Kirby reported. “The usual drunk-and-disorderly, he said.”

“That's a relief,” the Major said. “Anything from Colonel Austin?”

“No, Sir.”

Guru nodded and went into his makeshift office. Buddy, the squadron's mascot, a Golden Retriever, was in his small office couch, fast asleep. And the CO wondered out loud. “Did you have a wild night?” He smiled, then went back out, just in time to see Colonel Austin come in. “Colonel?”

“Major,” Austin said. “Hope your celebrating went off without any ….issues. Word's going around about Captain Thrace.”

“Expecting that to stay secret was wishful thinking,” Major Wiser replied. “Any news?”

Austin nodded. “Nothing about you guys, Eleventh Air Force said. Other than that, the North Koreans and the Cubans have rejected any kind of Cease-fire.”

“Let me guess: they've issued a bunch of demands that Philly rejected out of hand.”

“You got it. The NK say they're not leaving Alaska or Canada until we pay compensation for the damage we did during the Korean War, and Castro's demanding all of his POWs back, even the ones who refuse to go home, we pay him reparations, that sort of thing.” Austin said.

“The NKs will get a lesson, but Cuba....” Wiser said, looking at Kirby. “So we might head down there.”

“Possible,” Austin admitted. “Your squadron's originally from Seymour-Johnson, so, yeah, South Florida might be your next stop.”

“And a chance to rejoin our parent wing,” Guru was saying. “To be hoped for, anyway.”

“There is that,” Austin agreed. “Anyway, no flying today; just making that official, and no flying tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Major Wiser said.


Fairchild AFB, WA: 1100 Hours Pacific War Time, 17 October, 1989:

Major Wiser was in his makeshift office, wrapping up the battle with the “other enemy”, namely the AF bureaucracy. How much longer until the peacetime Air Force kicked into gear? Not much, he reasoned. It was bound to happen sooner or later, he knew. Oh, well. Some battles you win, some you lose. Then there was a knock at the door. “Come on in and show yourself,”

It was Nooner. She was taking her turn as Squadron Duty Officer. “Major, Colonel Austin's here.”

“All right, show him in,” Major Wiser said. He stood as Colonel Austin came into the office. “Sir.”

“Major,” Austin said. “I've got some good news, and some not-so-good news.” He had a message form in his hand.

“Well, sir, what's the good news?” Major Wiser asked.

“The good news? Eleventh Air Force just released you guys.” Austin said.

Major Wiser was trying to keep from shouting. “Back to North Carolina?” He asked.

“No, and that's the not-so-good news. You guys are going back to Tenth Air Force.” Austin said, waving the message form.

“Uh, Sir?”

“You're headed to Naval Air Facility El Centro, in the Imperial Valley. Seems the two states in Baja have severed ties to Mexico City, and they've asked for U.S. Military protection. The Army and Marines are moving in, and some AF will provide CAP for 'em, and strike if necessary.”

“So, our war's not over just yet,” Major Wiser observed.

“Afraid so, Major,” Austin said. “It could be worse: you guys could be headed to Florida or the Bahamas, and flying strikes into Cuba.”

“Yes, Sir,” Major Wiser said. He was dreading telling his people that they weren't headed home just yet. “When do we have to be there?”

“Ground echelon leaves in two days. Your squadron's equipment goes by air, and we'll have a few C-141s to help you move the heavy stuff. Get your planes there by the 23rd.” Austin said, handing Major Wiser the message form.

“Very well, Sir.”

Austin put out his hand. “Good luck, Major. And knock on wood, you won't have to fire a shot.”

“Thank, you, Sir,” Major Wiser replied, shaking his CO's hand.

Colonel Austin then left, and the 335th CO was looking at the message form again. “NAF El Centro, lovely.” He shouted for his Exec. “DON!”

[jemhouston]

Thanks for posting it again