Per aspera ad astra, p.24
Per Aspera Ad Astra, page 24
“Remember those Belgian Viper drivers?” Greyhound said.
Luigi barked a laugh. “Oh, yeah, those idiots. Four of ‘em came through on a navigation exercise late last year, staying the night in town. They kept bragging to the whole officers’ club about how they loved their beer, and could knock back pints like nobody’s business. But they had one tiny flaw…”
“…they couldn’t hold down a shot of honest American booze,” Greyhound finished, with a chuckle that was almost a growl. “One dose of Kentucky bourbon put their flight leader out like a light!”
“Huh,” Tony said. “Sounds like fun. Mountain Home never really got many visitors that weren’t Air Force or ANG of some stripe. Mostly trash haulers and a couple bombers now and then. You know the type.”
“We get those too,” Greyhound said, nodding in deference to Hydro and Chappy as they climbed aboard. “Especially since they shut down RAF Mildenhall. Isn’t that right, Colonel?”
Kaufman grimaced ruefully. “That’s right,” he said gruffly, banging on the cab. “The increased traffic’s been raising hell for ATC. Colonel Silva says they’re thinking of reopening one of the old runways so we can handle it. That’ll only add to the ball of shit rolling down on us.”
The truck began moving, all conversation ceasing as the eight officers were brought back to the squadron shack to scuttlebutt the flight. A daylong affair, it’d included brief stops on the runway to refuel, leaving them exhausted. Mike and Tim were both deep in thought, their wizzos happily oblivious since the training didn’t really affect their duties, but neither cared. Tony and Nate were good friends who did their jobs well.
The debrief took another hour, as Major Sinclair and Colonel Kaufman discussed the day’s activities, pointing out things the two captains needed to watch for, and what they’d done right. Their commanding officer concluded by announcing more ground school for the next morning, and a third exercise flight scheduled for Friday. “You’re both doing fine so far,” he said, releasing them for the evening. “Keep up the good work, and you’ll have your upgrades by the end of July.”
The two crews went their separate ways after that. Tim and Nate made a beeline for the O-club and their usual quart of Guinness, while Mike and Tony caught a ride on a passing Humvee heading into Lakenheath, since Mike had yet to get a car. Once they entered their flat and peeled out of their sweat-encrusted flight suits, Tony plopped onto the sofa in the sitting room, flipping through channels on the small television that came with the place (it was fully furnished by the owner). Mike, on the other hand, retreated to his room. I wonder how Granddad’s doing, he thought as he contemplated his new phone, which he’d needed for decent cellular service while in Britain. Since their lodgings were so cheap, and they’d secured an additional cost of living stipend from the Air Force, both had decided to splurge when it came to their phones. The reunion will be wrapping up later today, West Coast time, but I bet it was fun.
Making up his mind to check in on the gathering, hoping his grandfather might be home, Mike began dialing.
Dick got to a handset before his daughter or one of the staff could take the call. Renée, who seemed to sense what was going on, never let him out of her sight as he all but ran to the nearest one. Few people had access to this number out of necessity, and those who did were either out with the rest of the family, or out of the country, and he hoped it was the latter who wanted to talk.
“Hello?” he ventured.
“Granddad, you’re home,” a grateful Mike said from half a world away. “How’s the reunion going?”
“It goes well, Michael,” Dick said with a relieved sigh, returning to the library. “It’s too bad you couldn’t make it, everyone’s here.”
“I got Mr. Ferguson’s e-mail,” Mike replied. “He was actually disappointed, if you can believe it.”
“Certainly. You know how he gets when a family member can’t attend one of his events. Besides, he likes you.”
Dick could almost hear the blushing smile on his grandson’s face. Carl was immensely helpful in getting Michael into the Academy. He’d also lent liberal helpings of advice when it came to navigating the perils of life in Colorado Springs, and as a junior officer; both had attended his graduation. “Yeah,” Mike said, his voice brimming with emotion. “He’s pretty cool for a boomer. Does he still call you ‘General’ every chance he gets?”
Dick laughed. The good-natured jab brushed aside the confusing remnants of the tumult of feelings that’d warred within him. “Oh yes, even when I tell him not to,” he said, favoring Renée with a toothy grin as he covered the phone’s pickup. “My grandson,” he explained. “He’s stationed in Britain.”
“You could always threaten to fire him if he doesn’t stop,” Mike suggested, not for the first time.
“I can’t do that,” Dick replied, mock sternly. “The very thought of it would break his heart. And Anne would have my head.”
Renée giggled at the one-sided conversation.
“Who’s that with you, Granddad?” Mike said, catching what was, to him, an unfamiliar sound. “Another Parsons cousin?”
Dick hesitated, unsure whether he should spill the beans. Despite his earlier conviction, that seed of doubt was clawing for purchase once more. Looking upon Renée’s curious visage, he realized his grandson would find out soon enough anyway, no matter what he might think. “She’s an old friend,” he said, hedging his bets. “From the war.”
“Wow,” Mike replied. “Do the Marketts know her?”
“Indeed they do.”
“Well, I hope to meet her someday.”
Dick smiled broadly, but decided to change the subject as he put the phone on speaker so Renée could hear. “So, how fare you, Captain Parsons? Is life in Britain agreeing with you as it once did me?”
Mike laughed. “You know, I hadn’t even thought about that until Colonel Kaufman pointed it out,” he confessed. “But yes, it does. We’ve only met a few locals so far, including the owner of the apartment we’re renting, and they seem pleasant.”
“Give it some time,” Dick advised, a grin tickling his lips. “Settle in, get your bearings, then who knows? You might meet some nice English girl and decide you want to settle down.”
The irony of the statement wasn't lost on the young captain. “Gee thanks, Granddad,” he retorted mildly. “Colonel Markett actually gave us copies of his book, but with training and trying to learn some basic aircraft maintenance, I’ve only gotten a few chapters in.”
“Did he now,” Dick said, curious. “And your impressions thus far?”
“They don’t train us like they used to, that’s for damn sure,” Mike stated, somewhat moodily, before launching into a lengthy account of his and Tony’s visit with the Markett family prior to reporting for duty with the 492nd. Dick and Renée listened intently as Mike described flying from London to the North Country, and what he thought of Ben’s abilities as a pilot as well as what it was like to fly, and then land, such an astoundingly ancient aircraft as the original Mists of Glory. After that, he briefly touched on the setup at Thicket No. 2, then described his feelings regarding his new commanding officer and flight leader, as well as comparing Ben’s experiences of pilot training with his own. “It’s like a different world,” he concluded, after announcing he was undergoing training as an element leader and recounting his first flights. “Back then, they taught you to fly as part of a unit, to be wingman and leader as necessary, but they let you figure out how to make it work. There was no queep, or any other bureaucratic crap in those days; you were either a good, responsible pilot and were promoted accordingly, or you weren’t and washed out or got killed.”
“Agreed,” Dick said, his voice thick with nostalgia. “Of course, planes were less expensive, relatively speaking, back then as well. If a single Thunderbolt or Mustang cost a million bucks in 1943, they damn sure would’ve been a lot more selective about who got to fly.”
“I guess you’re right.”
Dick nodded, Renée smiling wistfully over his shoulder. This was, after all, a lot to take in. “Read a bit more of that book before you start getting too focused on what was,” he advised. “Besides, given the scope of the war, it was far better to field a whole lot of average pilots who could fly well enough, than a handful of master aviators who could take on all comers. That kind of backwards approach didn’t work too well for the Germans or Japanese.”
Mike was grateful for the touchstone, it reminded him of the old stories his grandfather would tell during his high school days. He hadn’t given that angle much thought, despite it being touched upon by his history instructors at the Academy. It was odd, then, to realize that in some respects at least, the modern USAF had become a more sophisticated version of the wartime German air force. In the Luftwaffe, as far as he could remember, every pilot knew their role, and they were told what to fly and how to fly it, with scarce room for innovation or initiative. He was confident—and so is Granddad, he realized—that things hadn't, nor wouldn’t get that bad. The possibility was more than he wanted to contemplate, especially given how full his plate already was. “Yeah,” he said at last, blowing a rueful sigh and staring at the bare wall. “Thanks for listening, Granddad. It was good to talk to you again.”
“I’ll always be there for you, Michael,” the old man replied warmly. “Even after I’m gone. Same goes for everyone we love who no longer lives.”
They exchanged mutual goodbyes, and the call was ended.
“You really mean that,” Renée said. It was not a question.
“Sometimes, I don’t know what the hell I mean,” Dick said, suddenly and inexplicably weary. “But he’s got a point, the Air Force has changed, and I’m not convinced it’s for the better. I think it started with McNamara and his obsession with technology, and kept snowballing.”
Renée held Dick’s hand tenderly. “I do not pretend to understand anything that went on between you,” she said. The gentleness of her tone, and the warmth of her grip, softened what could’ve been severe admonishment into a simple admission of ignorance. “It is clear you care for him a great deal. He could not hope for a better mentor.”
Dick withdrew his hand and adjusted his collar self-consciously, the feeling in his gut and heart becoming more difficult to ignore by the second. “Speaking of caring, what’s your angle, anyway?”
Much to his surprise, Renée shook her head dolefully and resumed her feet, presenting her profile to him. “I suppose it must seem like I have one,” she said to the bookshelf. “I show up more than thirty years after we last met, when it is clear you have become a man of means. It must hardly matter that I am a sorcerer.” She pulled a wand, much like Emma’s, from her purse and pointed it at the table. With a flash, a fairly accurate representation of Barty’s old P-47 appeared, a tear welling in the corner of her eye. Roughly the same scale as the models on display, it bore the same “Happy Birthday!” nose art Ben had long ago painted for him as a gift. “We do have much in common, beyond our mutual connection to my late husband, and I had hoped that, perchance, we might at least become friends.”
Dick felt like a first-class heel for doubting Renée’s sincerity. At the same time, the woman before him had just confirmed everything he was thinking, in all the right ways. Her expression reminded him forcefully of their first meeting, at Emma’s hospital, waiting to see how Barty’s surgery went. He’d seen traces of the hardened Resistance fighter she’d been, buried beneath half-remembered niceties of civilization, but also the budding love she’d held for him. He’d been concerned at first, but the feeling had abated once he’d come to understand the effect their shared ordeal had had on each of them. “I believe there’s a strong possibility,” he said at last, standing and drawing her to him. “We’ll find out soon enough, when we visit the Marketts.”
Renée nodded, batting her eyes at him as her frown turned into a tentative, watery smile. “Merci beaucoup, mon cher.”
Major Charles “Polak” Mankowitz was happy to be flying once again, having at long last been assigned to an active duty unit. The previous few years were spent riding shotgun on successive squadrons of cadets, making sure they didn’t cause too much mayhem, or serving as a kind of mentor to doolies and upperclassman alike. It was an important job, according to the Air Force, and he’d found ways to at least make it bearable—most of the time. He remained a pilot at heart, and felt exceptionally glad to be at the controls of his favorite C-17 Globemaster III “trash hauler,” as all transport aircraft were derisively referred to by officers and enlisted personnel alike. He didn’t care, so long as he was able to take to the air on a regular basis. Now stationed with the 6th Airlift Squadron operating out of McGuire Air Force Base, he was assured of regular hops to all sorts of exotic destinations. This was the biggest part of why he’d joined the Air Force in the first place, and the only reason he’d endured that last assignment—as appealing as it might’ve seemed to others he was acquainted with, he knew working for the airlines was a crap shoot at best. At least in the Air Force, as long as you did your job with a basic level of competence and didn’t bitch too much, you never had to worry about job security.
“Ready for some relief, sir?” said his co-pilot for this trans-Atlantic flight, bound for Ramstein Air Base by way of Iceland and Britain, as he plopped into the right seat and strapped himself in. First Lieutenant Jeff “Fartbag” Olson was a green junior officer, new to flying the Moose. He was a level-headed kid who, in Polak’s considered opinion, would make a fine aircraft commander someday. Assuming he didn’t bolt for an airline job once the queep became too much to bear, of course.
“Yeah, I’ve got her trimmed up,” he said to the sandy haired, freckle-faced lieutenant. “Let’s verify our position and heading with the GPS, then have a look at our fuel systems.”
“Yes sir,” Fartbag replied crisply, prompting a smile from Charlie. He still had no idea how the man had earned his callsign, but since the junior pilot didn’t seem to mind, he didn’t ask. Both men were new to the squadron, known as the Bully Beef Express since its initial service in World War II, and neither had settled into the routines of service with the unit and its mission of global airlift capability. Charlie, of course, wasn’t new to the concept, but since his career had diverged for so long, he’d had to endure a fair amount of retraining before he was cleared to resume line service. Jeff, on the other hand, was barely a year out of flight school, and was still getting his bearings in type. “Fuel pumps are online and responsive,” he concluded. “Supply is nominal, tanks and mid-air receptacle secured. We’ll be reaching the Denmark Strait soon, hitting Iceland as expected—unless the wind decides to throw us a curve ball.”
“It won’t, not this time of year,” Charlie assured him. He was familiar enough with the route that, before he was reassigned, he could’ve flown it blind. “What’s the loadmaster think of our cargo balance?”
“Riding smooth as silk, far as I can tell,” Jeff replied. “Ginny’s giving it the business as we speak.”
“Good,” Charlie replied, unfastening his seat harness and preparing to extricate himself from the big chair. His map and cargo manifest were secured to a clipboard tucked under his arm. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Roger, I have the airplane.”
Reaching into the bin nestled between the four seats once free, Charlie withdrew a large thermos, pouring himself a cup of coffee as he fell into the seat behind his co-pilot. Downing it in one, he covered the short distance to the bathroom just as Staff Sergeant Julia “Ginny” Lindores climbed the ladder from the cargo area. “Good afternoon, Major,” she said brightly, tossing him a grin. “How’d the top-off go?”
“Fine as wine,” Charlie replied, grinning. “You would’ve felt it otherwise.”
“Yeah yeah,” Ginny said, mopping dark, sweat-soaked red hair from her eyes as she glanced at the lavatory door. “Were you gonna use that?”
“Yeah, but it can wait if you really need to.”
“Thanks, boss,” she said, and entered.
Several minutes later, the loadmaster quietly left for the cockpit. After a brief visit himself, Charlie settled into one of the seats bolted into the bulkhead, stretched his legs and closed his eyes to catch whatever sleep he could, while Jeff handled the flight. From his point of view, he was only out for a few moments before he was being vigorously shaken by Julia, a nervous look in her hazel eyes. “Wassamatter?” he blurted, his voice slurred. Even in his sleep-befuddled state, he recognized the urgency. “Was goin’ on?”
“Dunno, sir,” she said, her gaze darting about as the massive airplane gave an unpleasant lurch. “LT says he doesn’t like it, he needs you up there pronto. You have to see this for yourself.”
Shaking his head and blinking hard, Charlie unbuckled himself and stormed into the cockpit. The view through the windows served as mute testimony to the seriousness of their situation. Where before there was blue sky and ocean, marred only by the distant horizon, there was nothing but a roiling mass of dark gray. “This isn’t normal,” he said in profound understatement as he sat. “When did it roll in?”
“Just popped up in front of us, sir,” Jeff replied, fear evident in his voice as he fought the controls. “Started about five mikes ago, I think.”
“How long was I out?”
“Three hours. I wasn’t planning to wake you for another two.”
Strapping in, Charlie scanned the instruments with practiced ease before checking their position, course and speed. Everything looked normal, but as he placed his hands on the stick and throttles, he felt the vibration of the Moose as it fought to stay level inside a thunderhead that, by all rights, shouldn’t even be there. “Doppler’s going crazy,” he muttered. “I’ve never seen a storm with this pattern before.”
“Feels like a thunderstorm, but I haven’t seen any lightning,” Jeff replied, gulping. “Should we go over or under?”
