Free Warriors (9781101621189) by Tom Young Page B

himself.
    â€œI have an unusual request,” Webster said. After a few minutes of explaining, he added, “No, I’m not kidding.” Then he said, “Let me let you talk to OSI.”
    The tone of the conversation seemed to change when Cunningham got on the phone, even though Parson could hear only half the discussion. “No, sir,” Cunningham said, “we don’t need to actually damage the aircraft.” A few seconds later he added, “Thank you, sir.” Then he put Webster back on the line.
    The base commander worked out the details with the air refueling control team command post. The tankers at Manas had missions scheduled for today. After the crews returned, they would need proper rest. Parson, Webster, Cunningham, and Gold could have a tanker and crew for one day only, first thing tomorrow.
    Better than nothing, Parson figured. When one of the Stratotankers landed just after dusk, he and Gold met the crew at their aircraft. Parson introduced himself to the pilot, copilot, and boom operator. The KC-135 also carried a flying crew chief—a mechanic assigned to the aircraft, chief of the ground crew that maintained the jet. To Parson, the Air Force’s fliers kept getting younger and younger; all these guys looked about twelve. He remembered the days when he was just like them: fresh out of training, bulletproof, and ready to save the world. All wore slick wings on their name tags. None had enough flying hours to earn the star and wreath that adorned the wings of more experienced aviators. But these kids seemed sharp enough. Their aircraft commander, Hodges, was a captain in his twenties. Hodges chuckled as Parson explained his plan.
    â€œSounds like an easy day for us,” Hodges said. The tanker pilot’s flight suit bore the patch of the 171st Air Refueling Wing, Pennsylvania Air National Guard. On his left sleeve, over the pen pockets, he wore an unofficial emblem that read NKAWTG .
Parson knew that acronym:
Nobody Kicks Ass Without Tanker Gas.
True enough. He and Gold would not be here now if tankers hadn’t come to their rescue once upon a time.
    â€œShould be pretty simple,” Parson said. “Nothing you haven’t done before.”
    â€œOnly in the sim,” Hodges said.
    Parson laughed. “Believe me, my boy,” he said. “If you haven’t rejected a takeoff yet, you will.”
    â€œJust don’t burn up my brakes,” the crew chief said.
    â€œDon’t worry, chief,” Hodges said.
    â€œAll you guys need to do is make it look good,” Parson said.
    He understood the crew chief’s concern. Back when Parson had first begun flying the C-5 Galaxy, he lined up for takeoff one day at Charleston Air Force Base in South Carolina. Loaded heavily with fuel and with armored vehicles bound for Iraq, the Galaxy needed a lot of runway to take off and a lot of runway to stop. When the tower cleared him for takeoff, Parson advanced the throttles until the N1 tapes met the power-setting marker, and the turbines screamed. At first the big jet hardly moved. Then the tons of thrust began to take effect, and the aircraft rolled at walking speed. The C-5 accelerated, and the airspeed indicators came alive. As the jet neared refusal speed, Parson felt the wings start to pick up some of the weight. Almost ready to fly.
    That’s when a goose—a great big black-and-white
What the fuck are you doing this far south?
Canada goose—flapped across the runway. And right through the compressor blades of the number two engine. Parson felt the thump, heard the bang.
    â€œReject,” the flight engineer called. “Flameout on two.”
    Parson ripped the throttles back to idle. “Spoilers,” he called.
    The copilot yanked the spoiler handle, and Parson pulled the outboard throttles into reverse thrust, stood on the brakes. The jet shuddered as the antiskid system cycled the brake pressure to help prevent blowing