Red Hammer 1994

Most in the squadron complained about the hot, humid weather, but usually not Buck. After back-to-back tours in the Dakotas, he swore he never wanted to be cold again. And today’s intense heat certainly helped clear his sinuses. He pumped the accelerator, started the engine, and pulled off, leaving a cloud of blackish-gray smoke lingering by the curb.

His apartment complex was less than a mile from Interstate 20, and only five miles from Dyess Air Force Base, home of the Strategic Command’s 96th Bomb Wing. Within minutes, he was cruising down the interstate at seventy miles an hour, the wind whipping through the open windows, a slight smile on Buck’s handsome face. He felt like shit, but flying was flying.

Buckmeister, as his parents still called him, had let down the family by choosing an air-force career over their preference—following his older brother and father into law. Even as a child, he wanted to fly. Fun-filled hours were spent reading magazines and books, building models, and doing anything pertaining to aviation. Secret flying lessons started at sixteen and continued through high school. On the happy day he had gotten his pilot’s license, his mother had burst into tears. His father had been more understanding, certain, as fathers are, that his preoccupation would fade as his thoughts turned to college and girls. Opting for air-force ROTC at Penn State prompted a major rift, one that still haunted holiday get-togethers at the elder Grants’.

Buck’s was flying what he now considered the most demanding aircraft in the air-force inventory—the B-1B bomber. His initial preference had been fighters, hopefully F-16s, but somehow he lacked that special ingredient to be a fighter pilot. To the hotshot fighter jocks, it was a combination of coolness and confidence—not hesitating to press the outer edges of the envelope. To Buck, it was a mixture of cockiness and craziness—the word stupidity came to mind. His marks and flying skills would have secured him a seat in the next fighter class, but instead he selected the more sedate world of bombers, signing his young soul over to the stodgy Strategic Air Command. His nightmare was getting stuck in B-52Hs, those aging monsters that never seemed to die—most of them older than he or anyone else in STRATCOM for that matter. They were now relegated to a standoff attack role, carrying cruise missiles, both the older AGM-86B ALCM and the new AGM-129A Advanced Cruise Missile. But luck was with him, and he drew B-1Bs.

The stealthy, black batwing B-2A, whose production line had been terminated at a scant twenty aircraft, had been billed as the answer to everyone’s prayers. But despite its advertised superlative performance, Strategic Command still hadn’t figured out how to use it. Many felt the B-2As were too valuable and too few in numbers to risk. That left the ninety B-1Bs to carry the brunt of day-to-day operations.

Pulling up to the main gate at Dyess, Buck fumbled for his ID amid squealing brakes. The air-force gate guards were used to these clever maneuvers during major alerts and calmly waved him through, saluting politely as he passed. He ignored the posted twenty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit and the numerous stop signs between the gate and his squadron. In five minutes, he had parked next to the fence and bounded up the stairs to the squadron operations office on the second floor.

The cramped room overflowed with twice the usual number of officers and airmen; the noise level was deafening. The squadron executive officer was shouting into the phone with his finger in his other ear. He slammed the receiver down and shook his head.

“Stupid bastards,” he said out loud, “what do they expect me to do? Pull the fuel out of my ass?” He turned and spotted Buck. “There you are,” he yelled across the room, “what took you so long?”

Buck shrugged. “What’s up?” he asked. “How come there’s a Code Sierra?” The executive officer was trying to do five things at once; his eyes jerked left and right.

“The God-damned Russians are playing tricks with their boomers. Seems we’ve spotted one off the West Coast. I don’t know the details; I’ve been too busy. CINCSTRAT has been ordered to get some of the bombers dispersed, so your number came up. You’ll be one of four from the wing. The colonel wants you to take-off ASAP.” The executive officer turned and started to walk away but stopped short.

“See the doc, and get something for that cold. You look terrible. Then get suited up and out to the hanger. Joe and the rest of your motley crew are waiting. Any questions?”