Post by webster on Dec 23, 2013 3:10:23 GMT
9 September 1985 - O'Hare Air Reserve Station
Every pilot has "the Nightmare"...that spine-chilling, nerve-wracking experience, usually during wartime, of being caught in a situation you cannot get out of despite every effort possible, usually culminating in the aircraft smashing violently into the ground. The nightmare usually ends with the pilot sitting straight up in bed, looking as though they'd seen a ghost - or some other ghostly apparition. For a few, it would enough to end their flying careers; for others it became a fatalistic way to view their lives..after all, why worry about everything else if you're fated to die sometime?
For Captain Little, his 'nightmare' came a few mornings' after the first day's action; though he'd fallen asleep easily enough - several large cups of coffee will normally do that to someone - the nightmare soon gripped his mind, forcing him to wake up in his quarters drenched in sweat, looking as though he'd been to the Other Side and back. For several minutes he looked around the Vietnam-era tent structure, dozens of which lined the hangers and maintenance facilities of what, prior to September 4, had been one of the busiest airports in the United States.
Grabbing his holster and .45, he strapped it around his waist and walked outside, letting the cool night air envelop him. All around him, activity at the ARS was still at full-tilt; off in the distance, he could hear the roar of jet engines - probably F-4s from one of the attendant units at the base - and various vehicles and motorbikes parades to-and-fro, taking personnel to maintenance shacks, ad-hoc headquarters building and hanger bays. It had all the look-and-feel of controlled chaos, which was precisely the situation; with a full-on active bomb wing, plus two National Guard wings and an active air-refueling wing, it was a wonder there was room for anyone.
That was a question Little kept asking himself an hour later inside the station's expansive mess hall; after a long shower and a change of flight-suit, he still felt like he was in the grip of "the Nightmare" but at least he didn't look like it. As he sat quietly, drinking a large cup of coffee and trying to navigate around a plate of late-tour rations, he felt the presence of another person nearby. Turning, he saw it was a tall, rather bespectacled captain who looked equally tired. "Oh, great," Little groaned, "it's the human rap machine."
"Well, hello to you too, Webster," came the reply, said Capt. David Rapinoe, who grabbed a nearby chair and sat down next to Little. From northern California, Rapinoe, who was co-pilot on Devil 03, was the closest thing to a rap artist in the 96th BS, hence his callsign "Rappy". He was also, like Capt. Little, an OTS graduate and one of the best 52 pilots in the squadron, if not the entire wing. He also had the patience of Job - a requirement for flying right-seat with Seanzilla, Little thought. "Come down from Cloud Nine yet?"
"Haha," Little replied, setting his cup down. "Find an off switch for that mouth of yours yet, Rappy?"
"Cute," Rapinoe retorted.
Before he could continue, Little asked, "By the way, how did the rest of the squadron fare? I know how we did in 16, but what about everyone else?"
"Well," Rapinoe said, "let's start with our own squadron. Nine Buffs' of the 96th Bomb Squadron put ALCMs' on target - those smoking craters in the SR-71 intel photos were formerly Long Range Aviation and Strategic Rocket Forces facilities, in case you were wondering, resulting in each crew getting a nice, shiny mushroom cloud to put on their respective plane's nose. However, you guys get to add a MiG silhouette to yours...nice shooting, Webster."
"We got lucky," Little quietly said, gripping his coffee.
"Bullshit, Matthew; that was damn fine flying," Rapinoe said. "I sat in on Lindstrom's debrief yesterday morning and he gave a lot of credit to both you and Captain McNeal. You two, along with Lieutenant Myers, helped steer that Foxbat in close enough so that Lindstrom could nail it with his quad-20s. By the way, Sergeant Lindstrom made history with his shootdown--"
"What? What history?" Little said, somewhat flummoxed.
"For the first time since December 24, 1972, a B-52 shot down an enemy aircraft," Rapinoe said. "I know this: I would hate to be that Foxbat pilot when - or if - he was picked up; imagine that debriefing."
Little smiled at the humiliating thought of a fighter pilot having to explain to his or her comrades how a bomber got the drop on him. "Gee, that thought alone, Rappy, makes me feel all better."
"See, I told you, you got to look at the bright side of life," Rapinoe said, getting up. "Oh, before I forget, Major Duell said to pass the word along to everyone in the squadron - there's an all-hands strategic briefing at 1000."
"1000, huh?" Little said, finishing his coffee.
"Yep," Rapinoe replied. "Apparently, things have gone from bad to worse for the Red, White and Blue. How, I don't know - that's what we'll find out this morning." As he walked away, Little sat for a few more minutes before getting up and exiting the mess hall for the squadron Intel shack. Even though he was still dog-tired, he figured he might as well go into the office and get to work updating the intel situation, a situation that seemed to get worse after every hour...
Every pilot has "the Nightmare"...that spine-chilling, nerve-wracking experience, usually during wartime, of being caught in a situation you cannot get out of despite every effort possible, usually culminating in the aircraft smashing violently into the ground. The nightmare usually ends with the pilot sitting straight up in bed, looking as though they'd seen a ghost - or some other ghostly apparition. For a few, it would enough to end their flying careers; for others it became a fatalistic way to view their lives..after all, why worry about everything else if you're fated to die sometime?
For Captain Little, his 'nightmare' came a few mornings' after the first day's action; though he'd fallen asleep easily enough - several large cups of coffee will normally do that to someone - the nightmare soon gripped his mind, forcing him to wake up in his quarters drenched in sweat, looking as though he'd been to the Other Side and back. For several minutes he looked around the Vietnam-era tent structure, dozens of which lined the hangers and maintenance facilities of what, prior to September 4, had been one of the busiest airports in the United States.
Grabbing his holster and .45, he strapped it around his waist and walked outside, letting the cool night air envelop him. All around him, activity at the ARS was still at full-tilt; off in the distance, he could hear the roar of jet engines - probably F-4s from one of the attendant units at the base - and various vehicles and motorbikes parades to-and-fro, taking personnel to maintenance shacks, ad-hoc headquarters building and hanger bays. It had all the look-and-feel of controlled chaos, which was precisely the situation; with a full-on active bomb wing, plus two National Guard wings and an active air-refueling wing, it was a wonder there was room for anyone.
That was a question Little kept asking himself an hour later inside the station's expansive mess hall; after a long shower and a change of flight-suit, he still felt like he was in the grip of "the Nightmare" but at least he didn't look like it. As he sat quietly, drinking a large cup of coffee and trying to navigate around a plate of late-tour rations, he felt the presence of another person nearby. Turning, he saw it was a tall, rather bespectacled captain who looked equally tired. "Oh, great," Little groaned, "it's the human rap machine."
"Well, hello to you too, Webster," came the reply, said Capt. David Rapinoe, who grabbed a nearby chair and sat down next to Little. From northern California, Rapinoe, who was co-pilot on Devil 03, was the closest thing to a rap artist in the 96th BS, hence his callsign "Rappy". He was also, like Capt. Little, an OTS graduate and one of the best 52 pilots in the squadron, if not the entire wing. He also had the patience of Job - a requirement for flying right-seat with Seanzilla, Little thought. "Come down from Cloud Nine yet?"
"Haha," Little replied, setting his cup down. "Find an off switch for that mouth of yours yet, Rappy?"
"Cute," Rapinoe retorted.
Before he could continue, Little asked, "By the way, how did the rest of the squadron fare? I know how we did in 16, but what about everyone else?"
"Well," Rapinoe said, "let's start with our own squadron. Nine Buffs' of the 96th Bomb Squadron put ALCMs' on target - those smoking craters in the SR-71 intel photos were formerly Long Range Aviation and Strategic Rocket Forces facilities, in case you were wondering, resulting in each crew getting a nice, shiny mushroom cloud to put on their respective plane's nose. However, you guys get to add a MiG silhouette to yours...nice shooting, Webster."
"We got lucky," Little quietly said, gripping his coffee.
"Bullshit, Matthew; that was damn fine flying," Rapinoe said. "I sat in on Lindstrom's debrief yesterday morning and he gave a lot of credit to both you and Captain McNeal. You two, along with Lieutenant Myers, helped steer that Foxbat in close enough so that Lindstrom could nail it with his quad-20s. By the way, Sergeant Lindstrom made history with his shootdown--"
"What? What history?" Little said, somewhat flummoxed.
"For the first time since December 24, 1972, a B-52 shot down an enemy aircraft," Rapinoe said. "I know this: I would hate to be that Foxbat pilot when - or if - he was picked up; imagine that debriefing."
Little smiled at the humiliating thought of a fighter pilot having to explain to his or her comrades how a bomber got the drop on him. "Gee, that thought alone, Rappy, makes me feel all better."
"See, I told you, you got to look at the bright side of life," Rapinoe said, getting up. "Oh, before I forget, Major Duell said to pass the word along to everyone in the squadron - there's an all-hands strategic briefing at 1000."
"1000, huh?" Little said, finishing his coffee.
"Yep," Rapinoe replied. "Apparently, things have gone from bad to worse for the Red, White and Blue. How, I don't know - that's what we'll find out this morning." As he walked away, Little sat for a few more minutes before getting up and exiting the mess hall for the squadron Intel shack. Even though he was still dog-tired, he figured he might as well go into the office and get to work updating the intel situation, a situation that seemed to get worse after every hour...