“Work to Do”
Nathan
Moving day. Nothing worse.
The movers weren’t notified about the mild hangover and pounding headache I’d be sporting courtesy of a late night at the Club—bullshitting, exaggerating, and drinking plenty of the beer I’d bought for my new squadron. Accordingly, they hadn’t cut me any slack on the projected early morning delivery of my “household goods.” That’s military speak for the hand-me-downs and IKEA furnishings that populated my pathetic, beige surroundings. They say it takes a woman to make a house a home, but the woman who once filled my heart never had the chance to fill my house. She was part of me for such a short time, it sometimes seemed I’d dreamed it.
As a Lieutenant Colonel, I was assigned a three-bedroom, two-story house in the “Soaring Heights” neighborhood. Holy shit, who named these places? I’d be lucky to fill the living area and one bedroom; an apartment in the BOQ would have been more appropriate to the shell of existence I’d been carrying on since Eliott died. The assumption was that a squadron commander had a wife, a family, and social obligations to attend to—not the least of which was fifty or so active duty members assigned to him, as well as their families. There were monthly social occasions, squadron picnics, luncheons and holiday parties—not to mention weddings, babies, and even the very occasional tragedy. Thank God for Coach and Bibi. That was what everyone, including Coach, called his wife; she told me it stood for Bellamy Bennett. Call her what you will. I’d call her a goddamned lifesaver. When she pulled her barstool up to mine last night after introductions, it became immediately clear she had in spades everything needed to navigate the sticky social quadrant of my job. In addition to her obvious and easy competence in the social arena, she was a part-time physical therapist at Children’s Hospital at Tucson Medical Center. I guessed she did the “force of nature” thing in her spare time.
My reflection on last night’s events was interrupted by the annoyed panting of my English bulldog, Mayze. She was cantankerous by nature and in a perpetually bad mood. Most days, we were a match made in heaven. The Arizona heat was doing neither of us favors today as I perspired unnaturally and worked to sort kitchen paraphernalia. “C’mon, Mayze,” I groaned, “quit your bitching. At least you’re out of the kennel. And you don’t even have to unload boxes.” She seemed unimpressed and adjourned to find a cooler corner of the house. I had to admit it was comforting to have some other life inside the four walls; sometimes that touchstone was just enough to maintain some balance in my chest.
I heard pounding on the front door and gladly straightened. Coach’s smirk greeted me through the sidelight, and I opened the door. Bibi breezed in, followed closely by her husband. “I brought breakfast tacos, but I have TUMS and ibuprofen in my purse. How are you doing in the light of day?” She led us into the kitchen, turning on the oven to heat and shoving the covered pan inside.
I grimaced and mopped my face with a towel lying on the counter. “A 0600 get up followed by some heavy lifting helps sweat the alcohol out. Coffee anybody?” I settled in at the breakfast bar for a second cup. “Smells terrific, Bibi. This goes above and beyond the call of duty.”
“Want you to feel welcome, Nate.” Coach smiled at his wife as she rinsed plates directly out of a box and began serving breakfast for the three of us. “This is going to be a team effort, partially because you’re a bachelor…”
“Widower,” I mumbled, without thinking, under my breath.
“…but mostly because it’s always a team effort.” Coach finished his sentence unaware of my slip-up, but it didn’t go unnoticed by Bibi, who regarded me with an arched brow and then resumed foraging for silverware. “Social events and obligations don’t always fall to the spouse in today’s military. It just happens that Bibi enjoys them. And kicks ass at handling them.”
Bibi smiled and blushed a little under the compliment. “Ah, Chuck. Thanks, babe.” We all tucked into the plates served with warm flour tortillas wrapped around scrambled eggs mixed with potatoes and crispy brown sausage bits. Sour cream and what looked like homemade salsa complemented the meal. It tasted like heaven.
“I never really learned to cook—clearly a crucial error,” I lamented. “Real home-cooked food is like Porsche,” I smiled and quoted Risky Business. “‘There is no substitute.’“
Coach caught my gaze and the smile in his eyes faded. “You’re here in the nick of time, Nate, or at least I hope so.” I settled back with my coffee and cocked my head, hoping whatever he was about to share would shed light on the mystery I’d been puzzling since the call came from headquarters. It was nearly every fighter pilot’s dream to command his own squadron, but there were routinely so many qualified pilots and only a finite number of positions to fill. I was young, promoted early along my career path, and, ostensibly, had plenty of time to wait. Yet the command was offered to me.
Coach sighed and leaned back, taking a sip of the sludge that passed for coffee at my house. “For reasons that are unclear, the Scorpions have a history of fornicating the canine so spectacularly and with such regularity that they seem trained to do it. Most of this predates my assignment to Davis-Monthan, so I’m hazy on some of the details.” His mouth tightened, and he shot me a rueful expression. “Take Miles Christman, for instance…”
“Oh,” I interrupted, needing to clarify, “Miles? Why?”
Bibi leaned over her plate, her wide smile filled with humor. “Miles, Nate. As in ‘legs that go all the way up and make an ass of themselves.’ Miles of leg, get it?” She laughed. “Wait ‘til we all go up to float the Salt River together in a couple of weeks. Those legs and that ass in a swimsuit? You’ll swallow your tongue.”
My face felt a little warm, and Coach chuckled at his wife’s description. “Accurate, but not where I was going, babe.” He turned to me and continued, “Major chip on her shoulder; not certain why. And a credible case of NAFD.”
“That’s a new one on me, Coach. NAFD?”
“No apparent fear of death. It usually applies to students, but this gal doesn’t seem to have anything to lose. Busts rest requirements, parties her ass off when everyone else is dialing back, takes unnecessary risks with the airplane. And herself. She’s been grounded before, but past commanders have mostly let her skate. Goaded her along like it was some kind of game. The other lieutenants are almost as bad. You know this kind of culture passes quickly on to the younger pilots. I’m concerned about Rock and Boo. Typical SNAPs; they can be corrupted. Rapidly.”
I blew out a long breath. This didn’t sound like a walk in the park, but trying to tell pilots what to do was like pushing water uphill with a rake. “So why not bring in an old head—some crusty Chuck Yeager-type to kick ass and take names? Why me?”
He grinned again and took another big bite of his taco. “Okay, this is where shit gets interesting. Ready?” Bibi refilled coffee mugs and waggled her eyebrows at me. “You’re aware of the seismic cultural changes in the Air Force over the years. In the years that predate women in fighter cockpits, pre-1993, there was a ‘boys’ club’ atmosphere was in full swing in most fighter squadrons. Over the next decade, there were still plenty of what I’d call ‘old guard’ in command structures throughout Air Combat Command. It wasn’t true everywhere, but unprofessional conduct was sometimes overlooked—even enabled.”
I gathered plates and stacked them in the sink while we talked. “I’ve heard the stories all right,” I addressed them both, “but I was a pup. Still in training and, subsequently, doing my stint as a FAIP. Women had already been in trainer cockpits for years, so that attitude wasn’t a known quantity. We worked alongside one another mostly without that bullshit.”
“As it should be,” Bibi intoned with a pointed roll of the eyes.
“Obviously, babe. Just laying groundwork here,” Coach continued. “Field grade staff in the squadrons spent an inordinate amount of time cleaning up the messes, all the while winking at the puppies for peeing in the house.” Bibi snorted. “Busting minimums, pushing on fuel, fucking the Wing King’s daughter in his backyard—hey, Bibi girl, it wasn’t me.” Coach’s face split in a blinding smile, but he backed off his barstool quickly with hands raised in the universal “I surrender” gesture.
She matched his smile but socked him playfully in the gut for good measure. “Yeah, but it was your roommate. And I have to assume that you were cut from the same cloth.”
We all settled in with fresh coffee as Coach resumed his story. “From what I can piece together, at least two and possibly three of the past four Scorpion commanders were from the old school. All older fighter pilots who fed into the ‘boys will be boys’ mentality. This manifested in seemingly small ways day to day, like a casual approach to quarterly requirements and record-keeping, but it was more noticeable in the carelessness surrounding flight discipline. Grounding a pilot for a grievous breach of flight discipline was treated as a slap on the hand, even secretly regarded with admiration among some peers. Those attitudes bleed onto younger pilots when they arrive and are passed on, year after year.” Coach sighed again and shook his head ruefully. “You’d think, after that steaming turd the Squids laid at Tailhook in Vegas back in ‘91…”
He shook his head, brow creased. “Well, you’d think everyone would have the fear of God in them. But the shit that went on at Gunsmoke, on deployment…” His voice trailed off, and he stared out the kitchen window for a moment, seemingly collecting his thoughts.
I scrubbed a hand across my face, feeling what seemed like substantially more than a single night’s growth of stubble. I knew where this road led, and the reason I’d been brought here was increasingly apparent. My stomach couldn’t handle another drop of this gawd-awful coffee. I found myself wishing I could switch to Crown to dull what I knew was coming next.
“Pappy was the worst of them, from what I know. He’d been the Stinger commander for about two years when Bibi and I got here. He was like a god who walked among them, a living, breathing bomb-dropping legend. When he showed up, the pilots, especially the LPA, followed him around like he was Heather fucking Locklear giving away free pussy. He was married, but it didn’t slow him down. Got more ass than a toilet seat. Flew, dropped bombs, and shot the gun better with a hangover than everybody else did sober. He’d had every assignment you could have in the Hawg. He was a legend in Korea—dipped his wick in every available clam south of the DMZ. Left some RAF O’Club in flames with the LPA in tow and the MPs in hot pursuit after a piano burning got out of hand in merry old England. Good God, it’d be funny if it wasn’t true. Flight discipline suffered because everybody was so goddamn busy playing Tom Cruise, trying to hang with or impress Pappy. Foundational basics were overlooked.” He paused, and his voice was quiet when he continued. “Looking back, it was only a matter of time.”
I felt nauseous and stared at my bare feet, awaiting what I knew was coming.
“We lost Rifle, Lieutenant Joseph Aiden Conner, one hot morning two months ago. His crosscheck came apart. The weather was clear and a million, but he just looked over his shoulder for a few seconds too long and flew into the ground. A fucking tragedy and completely avoidable. The squadron was in collective shock. I guess everyone thought we were bulletproof, that nothing bad could ever happen to the fun-lovin’, nothing-but-a-good-time Scorpions.” He looked past me and out the window again, anger tinging his voice.
“The funeral was the worst thing I’ve ever seen. I was the FNG, but I led the flyby, a missing man, of course, with three guys from other squadrons. Other goddamn squadrons, Nate. The Wing King sat the Scorpions down for two weeks so he could try to get a handle on the whole mess. Pappy flew into a rage and disappeared into his bottle of Jack. Didn’t even come to the funeral, if you can imagine. The grapevine report is that he got a general discharge and was shuffled off to an inpatient program that deals with complex alcohol dependence. His wife packed up with the help of a couple of neighbors and quietly disappeared.
Coach looked twenty years older as he gained his feet, rubbed his eyes and walked slowly to the other side of the kitchen. He leaned wearily against the fridge. “The Stingers aren’t the only ones whose reputation precedes them. It’s not an insult and will come as no surprise that you’re regarded as a stickler and a hard-ass. A straight arrow.”
It was true; my call sign, “Happy,” was a delicious little piece of irony bestowed on me in UPT where I’d spent weekends studying instead of chasing pussy and drinking myself into a near coma like so many of my classmates. Since then, I’d had a reputation for being serious and hard-working, mostly to the exclusion of anything that brought levity and color to life. Eliott was the singular exception to that, and her loss left me more somber than ever. Sometimes it took specific effort to blend into the hell-raising fighter pilot crowd.
“After some pretty high-level meetings at ACC, the Wing King seems convinced you’re the guy for the job. I’ve done some looking into your background, and I don’t disagree. My concern is not with you, it’s for you. It would be a heavy burden for anyone, but this is your first command. And you’re a bachelor with no one to help you carry the load, emotionally speaking. It’s not very macho to admit, but pillow talk with the right woman is better than most of the therapy you can pay for.” He looked with unabashed affection at Bibi, who returned his gaze.
My heart plummeted. Fuck, I missed that.
We were all silent for a few moments, absorbing; then I spoke first. “To be trusted with a task of this magnitude, it’s…well, it’s a tall order. And there are no guarantees. But I’ll bring everything I have to the table. Thank you for the candor, Coach.”
Bibi smiled and covered my hand with hers. “Hey, we all hang together on the Big Blue Team.” She adopted a teasing tone. “There’s no ‘I’ in team. All for one… Etcetera. Etcetera.” She smirked, then sprang off her barstool and started gathering the leftovers and wiping counters. “I’ve gotta get to the hospital. I have an outpatient appointment at 1100. Kid slid into home and fractured his fib in so many places we needed a CPA to count the pieces before surgery.” At my slack jaw, she scowled. “Don’t look at me like that. He’s fine—kids are made of rubber bands and chewing gum. He won’t even miss a season of fall ball when I’m done with him.”
Then she raised her eyebrows so I could see she meant business, “Your welcome party is next Friday at the Club. Since you’re single, we’re doing a flight suit party. Loads of fun for you and all your single guys. Huge bonus for the married ladies, too; we get to enjoy our husbands’ tight little tushies in flight suits. Always a treat.” She drawled the last few words and grabbed a handful of the ass in question to emphasize the point.
Coach clapped me on the shoulder, and then they were gone. It occurred to me that I could hardly have done better than having Chuck and Bibi in my corner. Good thing, too. I was clearly going to need all the help I could get.
BOQ—Bachelor Officer Quarters. A holdover from a bygone era. The “Q” would be a small efficiency apartment in a dormitory-style building on base, often with a shared kitchen. Unless required to live there, most single officers elect to live off base in apartments or rentals.
Fornicating the canine—Screwing the pooch, fucking the dog—a major screwup.
FAIP—First Assignment Instructor Pilot (aka how the Air Force eats its young). Typically, the top ten percent of pilot training class graduates get one of their top three choices of aircraft assignments. The next ten percent are returned to their pilot training base as instructors which is almost universally regarded as a bad deal.
Field grade—A traditional term for officers of a rank to command troops “upon the field of battle.” In modern parlance, a major (an O-4) or lieutenant colonel (an O-5) in the Air Force.
Wing King—The Wing Commander. Typically an O-6 (Colonel) but often an O-7 (one-star Brigadier General), depending on the size and complexity of the base. Commander of all functions on a base.
Gunsmoke—Formerly, a biannual USAF gunnery competition between teams in various fighter aircraft from across the Air Force. No longer held due to budget constraints.
Deployment—Moving some or all of a military unit away from its home base for a specific purpose and length of time.
LPA—Lieutenants Protection Association. A mythical association of young officers in a squadron having one another’s back, protecting themselves from the OFA—Old Farts Association, aka everyone else. In reality, the LPA usually represents the lieutenants as a group when they are assigned unsavory non-flying tasks: snack bar maintenance, party planning, going-away skits, etc. A long-standing tradition in fighter squadrons.
Piano burning—A Royal Air Force (RAF) tradition. When an exceptionally boisterous party at the Officers’ Club is drawing to a close, pilots will sometimes end the evening by hauling the club piano outdoors and, inexplicably, setting it on fire.
Crosscheck—The piloting skill of referencing all available instrumentation and visual cues to determine proper control inputs required to achieve desired parameters. The more complex and challenging the maneuver, the faster the required crosscheck.
FNG—Fucking New Guy. A term of endearment.
Missing man—Formation flown for a lost comrade at a funeral or memorial service. A flight of four aircraft in close formation approach; number three pulls aggressively up and out of the formation, symbolizing the lost pilot.
Call sign/Tactical—A fighter pilot’s semi-official nickname. Generally bestowed by other members of the squadron based on some egregious or hilarious buffoonery. Glorified in the movies with names like Viper and Maverick, but, most often, far less flattering. Pilots generally address one another exclusively by their tactical, and it goes with one to the grave.
UPT—Undergraduate Pilot Training. Air Force flight school. A rigorous course, approximately one year long, culminating in students being awarded Air Force Pilot Wings.