Red Hammer 1994

Questions? Of course not. Who was he to question the gods over in Wing Operations? Grant shook his mussed brown hair and walked out the door and down the stairs, more irritated than concerned. First stop was the flight surgeon’s office. The aspirin which he had finally uncovered had helped, but his nose was still running profusely. The friendly doc gave him a vile of small pink pills to take every two hours. He had heard about these particular pills. Their power was legendary, but half the pilots got airsick and the other half drowsy. The kind man added a few stimulants to take as necessary for good measure.

Next was the flight-crew locker room. Buck opened his gray locker and dragged out the mishmash of flight garb—G-suit, harness, survival vest, leg straps, and a banged-up helmet with large squadron decals on the sides. The layers and accompanying weight came on quickly. Buck could do it in his sleep. Within minutes, he had the obligatory twenty-five pounds or so wrapped snugly around his body and helmet in hand. He waddled toward the exit next to the maintenance hangars to hitch a ride to the flight line.

Outside, a dark blue utility vehicle waited patiently, the airman tightly gripping the wheel. “Let’s go,” said Buck.

Half a mile away was the old secluded alert strip. At SAC bases, before STRATCOM was created and when bombers still stood strip alert, a specified number of planes were always on twenty-four-hour alert at special pads. The crews were housed in a nearby cinder-block bunker, ready to dash to their planes at the klaxon. Everyone has seen it over and over again on TV. The routine was practiced until a series of the huge planes could take off single file in a matter of minutes. It was a breathtaking sight, one plane accelerating hard down the runway even before the one ahead had lifted its landing gear off the deck. But those days were long gone.

His plane was off on an ancillary apron, surrounded by air policemen armed to the teeth. The maintenance chief and his crew swarmed over the bomber, making last-minute checks. The always-serious weapons contingent stood in groups, having just finished hoisting the last bomb into the forward weapons bay. They hated rushing—safety procedures went out the window, yet they would still be accountable for any mishap.

Inside the human security shield, standing next to the waiting bomber, was a short, muscular, young captain, a purple scarf around his neck. He had his hands on his hips, smiling. A crew cut topped a square face with a prominent jaw and boyish grin. Two non-flight-suited gentleman, both captains, stood nearby. They were the bearers of the infamous black case—Buck’s Emergency War Order or EWO material.

“Afternoon, Buck,” yelled Captain Joe Grabowski as the truck screeched to a halt. “Glad you could make it.”

“Screw you, Joe,” he replied, jumping to the ground. He grabbed his helmet and strode over, nearly tripping over his own feet. G-suits and ejection-seat harnesses don’t make for graceful movement.

“At least you got some sleep,” Joe responded. “I stayed up thinking I would crash tonight.”

The two other officers stood patiently. “Are you ready, Major Grant?” said the first. “Badge, please.” Buck complied. They had already checked Joe to make sure he was Joe.

This part always annoyed Buck—signing for the EWO mail. It struck him as ludicrous that he was trusted to takeoff with a bomber full of nuclear weapons yet was required to sign a series of stupid forms to keep the paper pushers happy. He scribbled his name illegibly and looked around.

The second captain stepped forward with a large plastic briefcase sporting a built-in cylinder lock. He double-checked the number on the case and on Grant’s badge then initialed the form. He handed the case to Grant, who signaled to Joe. All matters concerning nuclear weapons, physical access, EWO target folders, or authenticators, required rigid adherence to the cardinal rule of two-man control. This included guards, security-response teams, the flight crew, everyone.

Squatting, both Buck and Joe checked the seal on the case’s lock then verified the stenciled number on the side of the case once more. “It’s all yours, Major,” said the captain. “Good luck.”

“Sure you don’t want to go with us? We’ve got plenty of room. I know how you guys like to get some flight time once in a while.”

The captain smiled and slid into the same utility truck. “No, thanks.” He signaled, and the driver pulled off.

Joe followed Buck to the plane. “How’s the cold?”

“Terrible, I feel like my head is ready to explode. Any other planes leave yet?”

“Just one. The CO’s. Two more are scheduled early tomorrow.”

Buck was first up the ladder hanging aft from the nose landing gear and through the hatch. He worked his way forward toward the cockpit, passing the weapons stations.

“Afternoon, Buck,” said First Lieutenant John Jefferson. Jefferson was the defensive electronic-countermeasures officer, in charge of the aircraft’s ALQ-161 ECM suite. “What’s going on?”