Hunting grounds, p.1
Hunting Grounds, page 1
Hunting
Grounds
Shawn Keys
For more information about the Author
Visit:
https://authorshawnkeys.wixsite.com/website
Cover Art by:
Gabriel Weisz
Freelance Concept Artist/Illustrator
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Originally Published by Shawn Keys
Copyright © (Month year)
ISBN: 978-1-990164-37-8
Chapter 1
Keying his microphone, First Lieutenant (USAF) Tyson Elliot Cross spoke with the controlled, measured tone he’d been taught at flight school. “Control, Uniform Tango Foxtrot 6-6-4, steady 2-0-0 at angels 10.”
“This is Control, roger. Maintain course and speed. Landing order 2 on Runway 3-Romeo. We’ll have you on the ground in 20 minutes.”
“Glad to hear. It’s been a long haul.” Tyson clicked off.
The First Pilot in charge of their flight crew drummed his fingers against his steering yolk. “You have a gift for understatement, young padawan. 30,000 nautical miles over 82 hours including two mid-air refuelings. If Colonel Cox and the Dip-Clear team hadn’t come through for us for that last-minute diversion leg over Egypt, we might have tacked on another couple thousand.” Captain Nick Cobb stretched his hands toward the ceiling of the cockpit.
“You make it sound like you had your hands on the sticks the whole way,” noted Major Chris Bagley, the aircraft commander. He had claimed the middle seat stationed behind the shoulders of the pilot and co-pilot chairs. He had one boot propped on a console that really shouldn’t have a boot on it, but neither of them was about to tell him that. “Four crews on one plane. Even after all these years, I can still hardly believe what the 5M-Super upgrade gave us.”
Not trying to hide it all that much, Nick and Tyson exchanged knowing looks. Nick had the seniority and privilege to risk a derisive snort. Unlike their overly-proper army brethren and the stuffy navy types, majors in the USAF weren’t really all that well protected by their rank when it came to friendly mockery. First names were common usage, especially by officers who still flew. Only when you ended up in HQ did the casual feel start to stiffen.
Tyson was fairly junior, but he knew the major was exaggerating. He had serious flight time under his belt, but even he couldn’t have logged that many hours on the old C-5 Galaxies before their retrofit to the C5M Super Galaxy variant. Any pilot with that sort of history would already have a star on their shoulders or have quit the Force a decade ago.
Joking around was one thing. Actually, calling the major a liar would be a step too far. For that reason, the pilots didn’t follow up their hints of disbelief with anything that might be construed as an accusation. Nick diverted the conversation a different way. “I didn’t sleep well on my last down rotation. Those racks back there are stiff as boards. I’m thinking I might be too tired to take her down.”
“Mm. Serious business. You’re thinking our good friend Tyson here should carry out his first solo landing?” Bagley mused.
“He’s been patient the whole way around the world. I have to hand it to him. He hasn’t begged even once. I would have been on my hands and knees at this point.” Nick’s sly smile made it obvious that it was Tyson’s turn to absorb his fair share of the ribbing.
It was easy to hold off any complaints. A fully-laden landing was one of the few checks in the boxes he needed to advance his career toward a rating as a First Pilot. Their flight designation was short for USAF Test Flight. A Galaxy was large enough to carry a disassembled C-17, filling its cargo hold to the seams. Their round-the-world trip was arranged for a chain of related purposes. Among them, the mission was supposed to pressure the Dip-Clear team to stay ahead of their flight. They had been given no warning, and commenced their ‘emergency’ diplomatic work upon take-off. The in-flight refuelings had been done with a new nose attachment. A new GPS console had been installed and this was a proof of the interface. With four rotating flight crews embarked, they had been pushing their endurance. There were bunks aboard for sleeping, but they weren’t cushy in any way. The sleep was never solid. Each team flew for six hours then received eighteen off, but it never felt long enough. That strain and its limits were also part of the test.
Now it seemed the flight would end where it had begun, at Travis Air Force Base in California, the home of the USAF Air Mobility Command. And the final test would be as much one for him as for the airframe.
Tyson let out a sharp breath. Nothing to it. Fully loaded is the same as empty. Just a bit less lift in the wings and sluggish in braking. Follow the procedures and it’ll be fine. He kept his grip on the controls and waited for the verdict.
Bagley kept him waiting, perhaps a subtle revenge for the earlier eye rolls. “Alright, fine. You have control for the landing. Nick, hands off until I say ‘Safeguard’ twice, then we’ll recover.”
“Yes, Sir,” Nick said, waggling his fingers to show Tyson they weren’t on his set of the controls.
Bagley looked over his shoulder at the two flight engineers at the work stations in the rear of the compartment. “Copy that, gentlemen? Lieutenant Cross has the lead.”
First Sergeant Attaway said, “Got it, Sir.”
His assistant Sergeant Monroe added, “Tracking, Sir.”
They finished just as Control came back on the radio. “UTF-664, Travis Control. You are cleared for landing on runway 3-Romeo. Alter left 0-3-4 for approach track.”
“This is UTF-664, copy. Coming left 0-3-4 and commencing final descent.” Tyson fished his water bottle off its holder and took a prolonged drink. His throat was feeling dry and he didn’t want any crackle to show in his tone. He counseled himself, One step at a time. Straightforward. Simple. Fortunately, while he was expected to maintain a strong familiarity with the procedures, rote memorization was not desired. Airmen had learned long ago that checklists existed for a reason. They prevented accidents by following lessons learned from previous, dangerous circumstances. Diverting from them was done at risk that could not be dismissed.
He flipped open his tactical pack and glanced down the list. “Reducing air speed to 2-1-5 KIAS. Deploying flaps.” The runway loomed before him large as life. The Galaxy was the largest aircraft in the USAF fleet. One of the largest in the entire world. It lumbered on the ground, but in the air and with the new avionics gifted to it by the airframe’s latest upgrades, it felt like a bird at wing.
“Landing gear down,” Tyson called out.
The flight engineers activated the systems. Attaway reported, “Hydraulics functioning. All four bogies are going down smoothly.”
“Crossing the airfield boundary,” Bagley commented, though it was intended as a friendly prompt.
Tyson was ahead of him. He showed it by noting, “Airspeed at 160 KIAS and falling. Flaps at 100%. Beginning flare.” With an unhurried pull, he drew the yolk back, canting the nose of the massive airplane up so that it would touch on the rear wheel blocks first. Guiding the swoop with a steady hand, the lieutenant rode the aircraft down into the tarmac. The howl of the braking systems thundered around them as the Galaxy lost speed and became a ground-bound creature once more. It ceased being the bird and returned to its life as a stuffed elephant.
“Well handled, El-Tee,” congratulated Monroe from the back.
Aviator Jyles, one of their flight team’s load technicians, cracked open the door behind them just in time to hear. ““Was that Cross?”
His voice echoed down far enough for the other technicians, Kirk and Lumley, to hear it and give a clap and a cheer. “Nicely done, Sir! Good stuff.”
As the round of praise faded, Bagley interjected, “Passable, I suppose. Guess I’ll have to sign off your requirement package and say you probably won’t kill anyone doing that sort of landing.”
“High praise,” Tyson quipped, feeling confident enough to press his luck again. Being too mousy would only goad them on. You had to hold your own. He carried on switching certain systems which were no longer useful while grounded to standby while taxiing the aircraft along the runway markings toward their assigned holding spot.
“Well earned,” Bagley replied, giving credit. “Didn’t I hear you have gads of flight experience?”
“Guess I’ve been flying since before I could walk,” Tyson admitted, not ashamed to admit to his first, best love. “My father took me up in his glider when I was knee high to a grasshopper, as my granddad used to say. Then I was an air cadet. Before I joined up, I thought for sure I was going to stay commercial and fly helicopters, but no one told me that keeping my flight hours current would cost so much. Joining the Force was to keep my bank account afloat as much as a way to fly more.”
“Choppers, eh? What did you practice on?”
“Nothing special. Flew Bell 206s because that was the small stable of training aircraft they maintained. Been up in a Sikorsky S-76 once. That was a pleasure, though I barely got my hands on the controls. Had enough hours in a Robinson R66 that I wouldn’t feel lost.” Tyson looked back at the fond memories and sighed. He hadn’t had time to get up in a rotary bird in over a year. The pace of his training had simply been too demanding. His professional fixed wing hours were starting to dominate his flight record. “Picked up my small bird license along the way. They had a Cessna 172 and a Caravan on the airfield, and the instructors were bored. Picked up time on them for half-price just
“How about ultra-lights?” Nick challenged.
Tyson snorted a laugh. “Think I’m crazy?”
“Nothing closer to real flying,” the first lieutenant said, only half-joking.
Tyson blew out a soft whistle. “I mean, I guess that’s true. But not sure how I’d feel about roaring around with nothing more than a cobbled-together engine strapped to my back while holding a couple of wings out with both arms.”
Nick rolled his eyes. “Not exactly what I had in mind.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching. “Still, I don’t think all that fancy flight time you have is why you did so well back there.”
“Oh?” Bagley goaded him on to kick the teasing back into gear. “To what does he owe his meager talents?”
“Common, Sir. Better than meager,” Nick joked. “That’s no surprise after that evening at McGinty’s. The man here has superpowers.”
Bagley’s eyebrows climbed. “Hiding a cape under that flight suit, young man?”
Tyson suspected where this was going, but he wasn’t going to make it that easy on the First Pilot. “No idea what he’s talking about.”
“Oh, come on! There’s modesty and then there’s evasive bullshit.” Nick began emphasizing with his hands to add to his description. “You should have seen this girl he picked up. Gorgeous.” In time with the last word, he curled his fingers as if grasping rather ample breasts. “I mean, damn. How this lug charmed a chick that cute is anyone’s guess. I thought he’d be floating on clouds for a week. But not this one. Oh no. He showed up the next day all serious as a grim reaper, as if he hadn’t just nailed the best tail of his young life.”
“Ever think maybe I struck out after we left the bar?” Tyson tossed out, hoping they’d bite on that and tease him for striking out. He hadn’t, but that would have been better than them digging further. Truth was the reality had been far, far worse. He had no intention of going into that now with this lot. He trusted them to have his back in the air, but the rumor mill was remorseless if you gave it any grist. Especially here.
Travis Air Force Base was tucked against the small city of Fairfield, California. It wasn’t tiny, but there was a decent chance on any given night that he’d run into people from his squadron if he went out drinking. When you started dating a new girl, it got noticed. When one of them dumped your ass, it got noticed. So far, what had happened to him hadn’t been noticed, and he was content for that to keep going as long as it could.
I should have dealt with all this before we left. He’d taken the chance to fly away from these problems, putting a world between him and the churn. The delay had seemed like a good idea at the time, making it Future Tyson’s problem. Now Present Tyson thought Past Tyson was an idiot, sure that everything had only festered while he was gone. Now that I’m home, I’m going to have to deal with this. There’s no way it’s going to stay quiet and it isn’t going away. He’d have to savor each day of peace as it came and be thankful for them. As for the problem itself… well, he’d find out soon enough how much trouble he was in later that day.
Tyson finished the taxi process and began running down the last active engine. He buried himself in the meticulous work to down-check the aircraft and get ready to hand it off to the techs for post-flight maintenance.
Nick let him escape from the teasing, idly busying himself with his share of the notations. “What’s next for the conquering hero?” He didn’t specify if he meant the successful landing or the lady. Knowing him, he probably meant both.
“Survival training,” Tyson said, grimacing as the question hit too close to the core of his hidden problem.
“Ooo, SERE is no joke,” Nick said, pronouncing the acronym ‘sear-ay’, smashing the letters together into a fake word as was standard custom among military folk.
Bagley was scrolling through screens on his command display, confirming fuel percentages and making note of any logged deficiencies to include in his final flight report. “How long before you go?”
“Four days. I have tomorrow off, then we have that hopper flight down to NAS North Island the next morning. I was thinking about signing on the round-trip to Elmendorf before I head off, if you don’t mind me logging a few hours with a different crew, Sir” Tyson said.
Bagley paused in his work, frowning down at him. “What? After what we went through? I ordered all of you to take it easy. I’m mad enough they are making us do that mail run to San Diego with only a day off between.”
“Give the kid a break,” Nick jumped in. “You know how it is, Chris. Young’ns like this have all that piss and vinegar to get out of their blood. When we were his age, we logged every flight hour we could then begged for more.”
Tyson side-glared at him. “You’re three years older than me.”
“But decades wiser because of the vastly greater experiences I’ve had,” Nick gushed, laying it on thick. “Fly free, young grasshopper. I won’t even think you’re betraying me by flying with some other flight team. Just as long as you come back to us.”
Bagley didn’t let his point rest quite so easily. “People who take SERE lightly either fail it or come back hurt. I lose a flight officer either way while waiting for you to do remedial training or rehabilitation.”
Stopping his work to look over his shoulder, Tyson tried to reassure his superior. “I’m in plenty good shape and fully prepared for the mental side of it. It’s going to suck but I’ve gone through it before. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?”
The major chewed on that, then grunted, “Don’t get burnt out.”
“I won’t. All I have to do is draw a few pieces of kit and replace a couple broken ones and I’ll be good to go.” Tyson returned to his checklist, leaving it there and hoping the aircrew commander did the same. Yeah, only that. Except getting that kit is what I’ve been putting off, because that’s going to spark off what I’ve been dreading. Nothing for it. Time to rip the bandage off.
* * *
Tyson reached for the handle leading into base stores. He clenched his hand a few times as he fought against the urge to flee. SERE was a good excuse to put this off for another few days. He could survive with a broken canteen lid. The single, thin blanket he was permitted to take wasn’t that threadbare.
His fingers slipped around the metal bar and grasped it firmly. It was a statement. He was committing. That had been a moment of weakness. He couldn’t let it get the best of him. The only way ‘out’ was ‘through’. He paced down the building’s inner corridors, following the signs toward the spot to draw replacement equipment.
She was there. Of course she was there. It was a small mercy that she was the only one there. It was a slow day. The other supply technicians were off processing the arriving shipments or tallying their spreadsheets to balance their books in pursuit of the never-finished task of ensuring Uncle Sam’s money was honestly spent.
Kara Rocheford was a civilian hired by the Department of Defense. Hired right out of her Chartered Public Accountant training, she’d spent the last eight of her twenty-eight years alive in service to the military. It wasn’t in uniform, but she and those like her earned their own sort of respect.
Normally, Tyson would have been nothing short of polite. Friendly even. Military folk lived increasingly at the mercy of civilian servants doing their jobs properly. Maintaining good relations with those who cut your hair, served your food, dispensed medicine, and refreshed your clothing allotments simply made good sense.
The events of the last few weeks had inevitably strained that relationship with Kara. He wished it wasn’t so. She was stunning and exactly his kind of girl. Athletic but with great curves. Flowing blonde hair. Piercing eyes. As was the custom in a military office, where all the serving members were in uniforms, Kara wore muted attire that hid most of her feminine charms. But even in her tailored blouse and unflattering pants, he could see the star shining out from underneath.
“Hey,” he started off, since he didn’t see any smoother way to lead in.
“Hey.” Her mouth, so sensual and better suited to lush smiles that could cut him to the heart, curled down into as much a frown as she could manage. “Look who it is.”
Taking a step toward the counter separating them, he held up the half-empty bag with his old items. “Can I do a quick exchange? My canteen has a broken strap for the lid. And a few other small things. I need them for going into the field.”
