Grasping for the Wind

By Alton Rivers

Extraordinary friendships are formed by six young fighter pilots during the promising days of the early sixties. They are brash and cocky, and their future seems unlimited, but only one is committed to career success no matter what the cost—Rob Walker.

The new Kennedy administration takes Washington, DC, by popular storm. One of the key members of the new frontier is Robert McNamara, secretary of defense. Recognized as a brilliant corporate executive, he eagerly takes immediate measures to control the Pentagon’s inefficiencies and wastes. The best opportunity to demonstrate his management rules is the most publicized procurement program of the decade—the Tactical Fighter Experimental (TFX), later designated the F-111. The result of his hands-on management is an ill-conceived and controversial fighter that costs lives.

Rob Walker and his closest friends are among the first pilots assigned to the dangerously flawed fighter at Nellis Air Force Base at the glitzy edge of Las Vegas. There, they find themselves in the riskiest game of their lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LifeRich Publishing
• Release date: Dec 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9781489713513

Alton Rivers

ALTON RIVERS spent 21 years in the U.S. Air Force and flew more than 3,500 hours in fighters.  On assigment in the United States Embassy in Ventiane, Laos, as one of the first thirteen Air Force officers there, he helped prepare the arrival of the F-111 in Southeast Asia.  Later he flew the F-111 at Upper Heyford Royal Air Force Base in England and worked at the American Embassy in London.  He concluded his Air Force Service with air-to-air missile testing at the Tactical Air Warfare Center at Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada.  Since retiring from Air Force service, he has worked in city management, particularly with economic development.

Book preview

Part One

There are old fighter pilots; there are bold fighter pilots,

But there are no old, bold fighter pilots.

Anon.

Chapter 1

Saturday, April 26, 1975, somewhere over Southern Colorado

The graceful fighter jet lurched awkwardly through the dark, turbulent skies, and then suddenly, as if its path had led to an open trap, it dropped sickeningly in the powerful grasp of a downdraft. The pilot cursed softly as he regained control. Moments later his instruments told him that he was back on the heading and altitude assigned by the air traffic controller, more or less in straight and level flight, but every sensory instinct told his brain that he was in a descending left turn. The delicate device of his inner ear was fully deceived and it, in turn, lied to him persuasively, but he resisted. Trust your instruments; trust your training.

He didn’t underestimate the storm’s power. Once while pursuing a target drone in a gunnery competition over the Gulf of Mexico he had flown into a massive storm like this. The towering black anvil had been ominous, but he had been young and bold, and adrenalin had overcome judgment. He had been lucky, but he knew others who had not. A squadron mate, returning from Hanoi, had punched out near the Laotian border when his battle-damaged F-4 had been caught in a monsoon. A Navy helicopter found the F-4 pilot’s body two hours later in the Gulf of Tonkin, thirty miles offshore.

He pressed the UHF TXMIT button on the throttle to make a call. His name was Rob Walker, but tonight the aviation world knew him as Ringo One. Albuquerque Center, Ringo One, flight level 35, severe turbulence. Can you give me something better?

Ringo One, the distant voice answered. Stand by.

One copies, acknowledged the pilot as he ran another crosscheck of his instruments. Heading, altitude, airspeed okay. Everything in the green. Not bad, considering. Then, in a blinding instant, erratic patterns of blue and white brilliance danced across the F-15’s wing, and arced across the canopy. Lightning strike! Electrical systems were lost; the cockpit was dark. His gloved hand went to the electrical control panel on the right console, and reset the toggle switches of the two generators. The glow of instrument lighting again bathed the cockpit.

Ringo One, the controller called, an anxious edge to his voice. Albuquerque Center has lost radar contact. Recycle IFF.

Roger, Albuquerque. Ringo One’s recycling IFF. The Identify Friend or Foe electronic system had fallen victim to the lightning strike. Unless coded, aircraft radar signals were difficult to identify in busy skies.

Roger, Ringo One. Albuquerque has positive contact now.

The pilot’s inner warning signals grew stronger. This had become one of those flights—weather, a lightning strike, a bit of vertigo—and now apprehension wormed against his sense of order. He sensed the threat of danger; something like the mixture of sweat and electricity and fear that filled a cockpit in a combat mission. The F-15 felt frail. He looked out into the darkness briefly, and then returned to his instruments. Albuquerque Center, Ringo One’s requesting an altitude out of this turbulence.

Roger, stand by.

*     *     *

Ralph McGee lit another cigarette, then placed the worn Zippo and near-empty pack on the console desk. Not a hell of a lot he could do for the F-15 en route from McConnell Air Force Base to Nellis Air Force Base. The storm was massive, clobbering every airway between Wichita and Las Vegas, and the entire day at Albuquerque Air Traffic Control Center had been a hell of a mess. One of the worst he could remember.

A call suddenly came through the intercom. Desk Twenty, this is Stewart.

McGee’s supervisor had been helping coordinate traffic between controllers throughout the long, tiring day. This is Twenty, he answered with an edge.

"Ralph, you do have Northern Four Two, right?"

That’s affirm. I’ve got him. McGee’s tone was impatient. Jack, I’m tryin’ to get an F-15 through a…

Okay. Just checking. Stewart knew when to get out of his controllers’ way.

McGee returned his attention and his microphone to the fighter jet. Ringo One, turn left to a heading of two-six-five and descend to flight level three-one-zero.

One copies, confirmed the fighter pilot, two-six-five, flight level three-one.

McGee’s eyes were coming out of his head. He badly needed aspirin even though he had taken two during his last break about an hour ago. His head hurt, his eyes hurt, and his heartburn was flaring up again. He had too much to drink last night, and too much smoking went with it. No sleep. The worse air traffic day in memory just had to follow an all-night fight with his wife. Of course, it did. God, his head hurt.

Albuquerque, Ringo One’s steady two-six-five, flight level three-one.

Roger, Ringo One. McGee liked working with military pilots, especially the fighter jocks. Good radio discipline. Quick. Professional. Not like the airline guys who hauled it back and forth between points A and B, getting bored. It was too crowded in the airline cockpits, sometimes three guys talking to the stews, trying to charm them with predictable jokes and lines heard everywhere. Time to check the troubled airliner again. Northern Flight Four Two. A DC-10. Seattle to Dallas. Four-two had reported a caution light—possible problems with his hydraulics system—and had sounded a little nervous. Plus, the guy was beginning to wander around up there.

Northern Four Two, Albuquerque Center. There was no answer and McGee repeated his call. Northern Four Two, do you read Albuquerque?

This is Four Two. Go ahead, Albuquerque. The airline captain sounded tense.

Four Two, say heading and altitude.

Northern Four Two is heading one-four-zero, descending through flight level three-six-zero at this time.

Ah, roger, Four Two. Understand you still have a problem.

That’s affirm. A hydraulics caution light. Need to work out of this weather and to have an alternate selected, if necessary.

McGee checked the DC-10’s position relative to other traffic and storm cells. Four Two, be advised you have traffic bearing one-six-zero and one-eight-zero, passing left to right. Continental One Eight at flight level three-three-zero and Ringo One at three-one-zero. You’re cleared to descend to flight level three-four-zero.

A short hesitation, and then Northern Four Two, roger.

Sensing the many distractions in the DC-10 cockpit, McGee spoke deliberately. Four Two, report when reaching flight level three-four-zero.

Roger, Albuquerque, Four Two to report two-four-zero.

Negative Four Two! McGee snapped. "Call when reaching three-four-zero."

Sorry ‘bout that. Understand three-four-zero.

Pull your head out, buddy. McGee stubbed out his cigarette and fumbled in his shirt pocket for an antacid tablet. He placed the pill under his tongue. For one long moment he closed his eyes and rubbed his temple. God, this headache.

Jack Stewart’s voice crackled through the headset again. Desk Twenty?

Go ahead, Jack.

Ralph, everything okay with your tracks? Four Two working all right?

Yeah, so far.

Sorry for bugging you, but it looked like he was converging with other tracks. I’ll be glad when this one’s over. Bitch of a day.

The antacid tablet tasted chalky. McGee forced it down. Not one of my all-time favorites, he said, ending the exchange with Stewart. The throbbing in his temples pounded harder and again he closed his eyes, trying to put mind over matter. He rubbed his temples slowly, but the throbbing wouldn’t go away.

A troubling thought about the problem airliner persisted. Four Two should be calling by now, reporting that he had leveled at thirty-four thousand. Jack was right. Four Two’s getting close to other traffic…the F-15. And now his heading didn’t look right. Jesus, is he in a turn? Check it out. Northern Four Two, McGee transmitted, Albuquerque Center. Say heading and altitude.

Ah…roger…Albuquerque… The words were hesitant…uncertain. Four Two is heading one…uh…five. Passing through flight level…uh…three two zero at this time.

Three-Two-Zero! McGee leaned into the headset’s microphone. Three-two-zero! He had cleared Four Two to thirty-four thousand feet! What in the hell? "Northern Four Two, level off immediately! Do not continue descent! McGee’s throat tightened. My God! This idiot was letting down through other traffic! Was he off heading in addition to screwing up his altitude? Northern Four Two. Level off! There was no answer and the controller tried again. Four Two, confirm altitude. Nothing. The pounding in McGee’s temples was deafening as he commanded sharply, Four Two, if you read Albuquerque Center, level off at flight level three two zero."

Uh…Albuquerque…Northern Four Two…

Relief swept through McGee. Finally the idiot was back with him. Now to find out what his intentions were, but the airline pilot continued, …uh, Albuquerque, we’ve got, uh, a problem…we’ve hit something…

Hit something! McGee’s mind raced. Say again, Four Two. Say again!

Uh, we’ve…we’ve hit something. The voice struggled through the chaos of the DC-10’s cockpit. Aircraft’s under control, but we hit something.

No! No! The controller forced words from his tight, dry throat. Say again your situation, Four Two.

We…some…kind of damage. But…under control. Request heading to nearest emergency airfield.

Four Two and Ringo One! The F-15! Oh God! McGee forced a steady voice. Four Two, take up one-three-five degrees for Amarillo. One-three-five. Squawk emergency. I’m notifying Amarillo Approach.

Damn! How did it happen? He tried to calm himself. He’d monitor Four Two and call Amarillo. So far Four Two was hanging together, but Ringo One? McGee called the fighter. Ringo One, this is Albuquerque Center. Do you read Albuquerque? This was his fault. And now he couldn’t get the fighter pilot to answer. Come on, you F-15 driver! Come on! There was no answer. He tried again.

Ringo One, do you read Albuquerque?

*     *     *

The pilot’s helmet had cracked hard against the canopy as the F-15 had been thrown into a violent, inverted spin. Now he blinked at the madness and tried to make sense of what had happened. G-forces shoved him hard into the seat and slammed him against the sides of the cockpit. His fighter jet was a leaf in the center of a tornado. He had no control. Not a prayer. Blood was forced from his head, and his vision became only a small tunnel of sight, and he strained to focus on the altimeter. It was unwinding fast! Twenty-six thousand! Twenty-five! The inverted wildness was an upside down elevator, falling down its dark shaft at an unbelievable rate, spinning tightly. Sweat stung his eyes.

Ringo One…Ringo One…this is Albuquerque Center…

He could only manage to keep a grip on the control stick and to keep his feet on the rudder pedals. Trying to recover from the inverted spin was useless. The G-forces pushing him down suddenly lightened, but the lateral G’s slammed him harder from side to side. The elevator was slowing down but it was spinning faster.

Ringo One…do you read Albuquerque Center…?

He didn’t hear the controller’s call. He was hyperventilating—breathing in uncontrolled gasps. ‘Don’t panic, babes…breathe real slow…don’t go hyper.’ He had to keep his act together until it was time to punch out…miracles happen sometimes… concentrate…the ejection seat is quick…just be ready…no time for histrionics.

Eighteen thousand feet! The death rattle from deep inside the soul of the F-15 was unmistakable. Seventeen thousand! Lightning flashes filled the sky. Be ready… remember, terrain elevation around here was up to eight thou in places. Then, for the first time, he heard the voice that had been calling him.

Ringo One, Albuquerque Center. Are you having difficulty, Ringo One?

‘Damn straight,’ he thought as the altimeter swept past fifteen. Still the G-forces punished him against the sides of the cockpit. If he didn’t squeeze the ejection triggers at the correct split-second his bailout would be a meat slicer job.

No miracle this time, babes. Time to step out. Now.

He tried to sit erectly, placed both hands on the ejection seat handle, and mentally braced for the next few violent moments. Get it right or your spine would splinter like dry wood. Then he pulled the handles that jettisoned the canopy, separating it from the aircraft, squeezed the triggers igniting the explosive charge under the seat, and it rocketed clear of the cockpit, hurtling him violently into the ink-washed, angry sky.

The moment he hit the windblast the darkness exploded with brilliance as enormous daggers of lightning sliced around him.

Chapter 2

Trey Jones entered the room, hurrying to stop the telephone’s ringing. Hello. Yes, this is Lieutenant Colonel Jones…

Behind him, Jan dabbed at perspiration with a small towel and crossed to the love seat. They were coming in from playing two sets, and although it was almost dusk it was still hot in Las Vegas. They both wore tennis whites. She placed the small blue bag of tennis gear and the rackets beside her and leaned back against the soft cushions.

Okay. Good. Yes, I’ll be here. Thanks. Trey’s dark hair was damp and a towel was draped around his neck. His slender frame made him appear taller than his six feet.

Who was that? She ran her fingers through her dark auburn hair and stretched to rest her feet on the coffee table. She frowned at her legs. She needed to lose five pounds.

The command post duty officer. Trey replied. The McConnell command post had called. Rob refueled at McConnell, but storms in the Wichita area delayed him an hour. Took off not much more than thirty minutes ago, so he’s gonna be late. The command post will call me when he contacts Nellis Approach Control.

I can’t wait to see him.

Trey went to the stereo, carefully placed a record on the turntable and muttered, We could’ve played another set. An old Simon and Garfunkel favorite began to play.

She smiled at his exaggerated gruffness, then looked at a picture on the far wall.

He approached her, reaching for the bag. I’ll put this away…. He interrupted himself, followed her line-of-sight to a photograph of seven young men in flight suits posed proudly beside a T-38 trainer jet. Okay, what is it?

Just thinking about a very special time. Some special people.

Special? he asked cynically. Are you kidding me? It was the old routine of disparaging put-downs and endless insults among best friends. Rob? Special?

We created a lot of memories with him and Helen.

Helen, certainly. Rob? You must be joking.

The first time I danced the Twist was with him.

Outta sight. How could I’ve possibly forgotten that? He held back a smile as he pushed her to further defend their old friend.

Our first Hurricanes at Pat O’Brien’s in New Orleans. She removed sweatbands from both wrists. Our first night on the Vegas Strip. We were with them.

Events certain to go down in history.

We learned to play bridge together, she said. Do I need to go on?

I could always wax him at liar’s dice.

She said nothing, only giving him a soft hmmm, with an arched eyebrow. It was her signal. Enough: the fun part is over, so stop the routine.

Okay, he said. "I’ll concede that he’s been of some significance in our lives."

She looked back to the photograph. Where did the years go, Trey?

He shrugged, and tried to think of how to bring her out of her melancholy.

The ‘Select Circle’. I always thought that was a good name for you guys, she said thoughtfully. "I know things can’t be like before, but I miss those times."

"Yeah, and you coined that name." He put the bag and rackets down to sit beside her.

"It was a good time, wasn’t it? At first, I mean. Everything seemed so new and exciting. The seven of you. So cocky."

We had every reason to be. We had such sassy’n sexy girls.

We were only behaving the way you guys wanted us to. She checked her watch, and said, I wish he would hurry.

He smiled. You haven’t always been so anxious to see Rob.

I remember. I got where I despised his all-important ambition, more important than anything else. Even Helen. She paused, and then said softly, That was a long time ago.

He moved closer to her and repeated, Well, he’ll be here soon. He placed his finger under her chin and raised her face to his. Just as their lips touched the telephone rang.

Someone’s timing stinks. He gently pushed her away and started toward the phone.

Could it be Rob?

No, it’s too soon. He answered the phone, then listened quietly, intently. Jan saw his jaws tighten, his eyes harden. Did he make a call? Anyone see a chute? he asked. A few moments later he said, I’ll be right there, and hung up.

What, Trey? Her clasped hands squeezed tightly.

He immediately put his arms around her. It’s Rob. He had a mid-air. An airliner. The airliner is making an emergency landing.

And Rob? She strained to control her voice.

A rancher saw his F-15 auger in. Called Holloman Air Force Base to report it.

Is he..?

"They don’t know." He gave her the best smile he could manage. He’ll probably be just fine. He tried to sound confident for her sake, but a mid-air…

Her voice trembled. You’re going to the command post, aren’t you?

Yes. They’ll be in contact with the search and rescue people. I want to be there as they get reports.

Will you…

Of course. I’ll call the minute we hear anything.

God, Trey…

He’s going to be all right.

You really think so?

He’s already set a sagebrush fire that’ll light up the south half of Colorado. He’ll be on his second martini by ten o’clock. He released her. I’ll call Greg and Clay from the command post.

I’ll call Pat, Jan said. What about Helen? Who will tell her?

I don’t know.

Oh Trey, one of us has to tell her.

Wait until we know more. He checked his watch.

*     *     *

Beyond the silhouetted patterns of pine trees, pinpoints of starlight filled the dark North Carolina sky. Greg Simmons sat on the patio recliner holding a gin and tonic, staring at the stars. The telephone call from Trey Jones had come twenty minutes earlier.

Teri sat beside him, waiting silently, knowing he needed to sort through private thoughts just now, thoughts about survival in the mountains of Colorado and New Mexico. Minutes passed with only the sounds of crickets and the distant roar of an F-4. A lamp beyond glass doors cast a soft light across the patio and on his dark skin. His muscles were as taut and stomach as flat as when he had been a college athlete.

Teri had not been a part of those first years, for she and Greg had not married until later when he was going to war, but she fully understood the importance of them.

Greg sipped his drink. In a low voice he said, You know, everything took place in the Sixties. Pilot training in 1960. Then our first fighter squadron. Less than two years out of college and we’re flying century series fighters. The early ‘60s were terrific, but later things turned. He paused. Teri remained silent. Everybody connects the ‘60s with the counter-culture thing. Abbie Hoffman. Jerry Rubin. He shrugged a shoulder indifferently. Fact is, no one heard of those people until about 1968.

She offered to freshen his drink, but he shook his head.

Our friendships…kinda special. He looked at her as though it were vitally important that she understood. When we arrived in Mississippi and found that I wasn’t welcome at Greenville restaurants, Rob went to each one and told them no one in our class or other classes would eat in their places. No one did. He did that for me.

Teri nodded.

We competed constantly. In the air. On the ground. Same clinched-teeth style. Flag football. Basketball. Brad and Clay. Rick, Trey and Mike’d do anything to win.

And Rob?

Smooth. Very smooth. A hesitant smile appeared.

She understood. Smooth. A pilot’s ultimate compliment.

And the parties. Lord, the parties. The smile went away. I wish you had known us then. Things—we—were different then.

*     *     *

The telephone rang and Gayle Porter said, Darling, would you get that? My nails are drying. She held her hands in front of her and blew lightly on them as her husband crossed the room to the phone.

Clay Porter speaking.

There was a short pause and Clay smiled. Trey! How are you? He placed his hand over the mouthpiece and mouthed exaggeratedly to her that it was Trey Jones. Of course it was; they knew only one Trey. She nodded to him and smiled.

Clay’s grin disappeared. Bad news? What kind of bad news? There was a brief pause, and then his expression hardened. "A mid-air. Did…did Rob get out?"

Gayle caught her breath.

Did he make a call before he ejected? Clay asked.

Rob! She felt dizzy. Rob Walker! Her mind reeled and she closed her eyes.

The airliner recovered okay? Thank God, Clay said with a long sigh.

She waited as Clay listened to explanations. The silence lengthened and she looked at him. Her husband was staring into space, digesting Trey’s description of the accident.

Rescue activity underway? He rubbed his temple. Is weather a problem? A frown lined his face as Clay listened to the answers. Then he said, If Rob’s conscious he’ll build a fire. He’ll be on the radio. He slowly shook his head. But if he’d been conscious, he would’ve made a call first thing.

Gayle could hear the pain in her husband’s voice.

Yeah, you’re right, Trey. This could be bad. Real bad.

She sat quietly, looking out the rain-streaked window. Rob Walker. Kinda different from the others. Like them, he loved sports and sports cars, but he also liked art and jazz. She thought of how he loved Ella Fitzgerald. June Christy. Different.

The conversation between her husband and Trey was ending. Call as soon as you hear anything, no matter what time it is. Keep me posted, Clay said.

Gayle thought of Helen and Rob’s marriage. Too many problems. So sad. She dabbed at her eyes with a white linen handkerchief. She had been taught, as a southern girl, a gracious manner. Learning to present a proper appearance had been very important, and even now she didn’t want Clay to see her crying.

Why did they have to fly their fighters? She understood the excitement and adventure at first. But Rick and Mike had been killed. Clay had been shot down. And now, Rob. Would it never end? She put away her handkerchief and turned toward her husband.

*     *     *

Pat King sat in the soft pool of light at her reading table. Her once flaxen hair had lost its sheen, and her once attractive features were now hardened. She had listened silently as Jan told her about the accident. It had been painful listening to Jan’s desperate hope that Rob wasn’t dead. She closed her eyes and laid her head against the high-backed chair. How many times had they shared desperate hopes through the years? How many telephone calls had there been? Her mind followed a path of memories. When Mike had left Michigan for the Air Force, he had been so preppy. When she joined him in Greenville, he and his new friends had developed such a bond.

Mike had respected Rob, but she didn’t. Not at all. Not after what he did to Helen. If he survived this crash, she hoped for his sake that he wasn’t badly injured. She wasn’t sure he could find a purpose for life if he couldn’t fly.

Mike’s picture was on the reading table. Next to his picture lay the Bible, its black leather, gold embossed cover gleamed in the glow of the lamp. Remembering a passage that always reminded her of Rob, she picked it up. Slowly she turned through the pages. She found it.

Whatever my eyes desired

I did not keep from them.

I did not withhold my heart

From any pleasure,

For my heart rejoiced in all my labor;

And this was my reward…

Then I looked…on all I had done

And on the labor in which I had toiled;

And indeed all was vanity

And grasping for the wind.

She lowered the Bible to her lap and leaned back in the chair, closing her eyes. Grasping for the wind. That was Rob, she thought. That was Rob Walker to a ‘T’.

*     *     *

In the darkness, the pilot lay unconscious, wedged against the jagged shapes of a boulder. The oxygen mask hung loosely from its helmet connections at the side of his face. His flight suit was wet from the rain, but darker bloodstains soaked the collar and shoulder. Dried blood caked the side of his face. Shroud lines led from his harness to the parachute canopy several feet away. The silk panels billowed softly in the gentle breeze.

The southerly breeze was a dramatic contrast to the storm that had torn through the canyon earlier. The night grew colder. The only sounds were the breeze and the soft billowing of the silk. Suddenly from the night skies came the loud, harsh sounds of rotor blades and the ugly, rhythmic noise beat against the sharp contours of the canyon. The helicopter passed overhead three times, and then it was gone.

The hours passed. Only once through the long night was there a low, painful moan.

*     *     *

England 1475

Limping slowly, the big, mail-armored warhorse appeared from the forest’s deep shadows and carried the knight into the twilight of a small meadow. The violent battle from which they had only just escaped had left the rider semi-conscious, slumped in the saddle. Thick blood from the wounds of both the knight and the great, grey horse mixed along the horse’s lower neck, chest, and legs. The horse continued to walk slowly until he felt a shift of the weight and balance of the rider, and then he stopped. The knight lost his grip on the saddle pommel, and fell to the ground. His fall onto the soft earth made little noise, his moan covered by the sounds of chained metal armor and the impact of the heavy shield, and then there was only quietness as he lost consciousness.

Riderless now, the plate armor protecting the warhorse caught more of the sunshine filtered by the lower branches of the trees and reflected the soft light. The armor was of fine design and skilled craftsmanship, as well as properly lined with padding and fabric to prevent rubbing against the horse. The armor wasn’t heavy to the big steed, was fitted perfectly, and provided full freedom of movement.

Returning to consciousness, the knight didn’t move. The horse remained close. Overcoming the pain, the knight slowly moved his hand up the horse’s leg, and as dark blood mingled between his hand and the animal’s leg, a familiar pat assured the horse that they would heal and soon ride again. The knight and his warhorse had fought together many years, had ridden into many tournaments and battles together, and had experienced many victories. Both were in desperate need of rest to begin recovery from vicious blows they had suffered that late morning, only hours earlier. There would be no help arriving, for this forest path was narrow and seldom traveled, but they were both strong and healthy. Perhaps their wounds were not accompanied by the dark song of death. Perhaps not this time.

The knight’s legs were covered with dried blood, and there was no feeling in them. Through the pain his mind fought to remember. It had been a trap. The battle had been long in the planning: carefully chosen knights to lead into the clash; well-trained warriors to storm the larger enemy force; perfectly planned steps for vanquishing the foe. They had, however, fallen into a trap.

Deep shadows settled across the meadow as the sun descended behind the trees of the forest. Soon the meadow, the horse and the knight were shrouded in a darkening haze. The knight again fell into unconsciousness.

Hours passed, and once during the night he opened his eyes. The height of the moon, appearing through small, rapidly moving clouds, told him that the hour was late. He vaguely remembered charging on his warhorse into a superior force, being overwhelmed by the enemy, and he recalled the blows by swords and lances, how his great warhorse had carried him through the fighting and away from certain death. His mount was now making soft, low noises. The knight spoke in acknowledgement, and then cried out as the pain became worse. Somehow, he knew he would never see another dawn.

*     *     *

The report came through the next morning at dawn. Walker had been found. Trey Jones sat in the office of the Nellis Command Post director, an office separated from the command post counter by a large glass partition. A sergeant and two subordinates easily maintained information in yellow magic marker on the Plexiglas board that loomed on the wall behind the counter. As usual, Sunday activity was light.

Jones’ telephone conversation with the flight surgeon at Lowery Air Force Base near Denver had ended twenty minutes earlier. Rob was badly injured, but alive, and had been transferred to a Denver hospital. The doctor said they would have to wait to see if his friend made it. Waiting was always the hardest part.

He had been anxious to see Rob. Recently their fast track careers had headed in diverging directions, separating them. It was ironic that Rob had been coming to Nellis to join him on a high-profile project, teaming them again for the first time in years.

The Shah of Iran wanted his Air Force to have an advanced, technical testing and training program, and he had asked the U.S. Government to provide him one. The Shah had referred to two USAF Tactical Air Command examples: the Air Warfare Center’s test program at Eglin Air Force Base, Florida, and the Fighter Weapons Center’s training program at Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada. The request was immediately granted, and the Air Force had been tasked to give the Shah whatever he wanted. The Shah, with his oil, enjoyed a rare, privileged status with the American government.

Jones, Ops Officer of the Fighter Weapons Center, had been called to his commander’s office two days earlier, and told that he was being assigned to the Royal Iranian Air Force project. The project officer from Eglin would be arriving at Nellis Monday to begin planning their meeting with the Shah’s senior staff in Tehran. The Eglin project officer’s name? Walker, his commander had answered. Lieutenant Colonel Rob Walker. Three hours later Rob had called. I’m flying into Nellis tomorrow, Trey, he had said. And I expect you to meet me and my F-15 with a cold beer.

The two of them weren’t that different; the one big difference being the importance they gave to reaching the top rung of their profession. For Jones, there were other things more important; for Walker, nothing was.

Jones pulled the telephone closer and thought how, even though they had been best friends, it hadn’t always been smooth between them. Rob had been obsessed with early success, and not even best friends were allowed to get in his way. That ‘golden boy’ thing was real: below-the-zone promotions, the good assignments. Rob’s most recent assignment had been chief test pilot for the newest fighter, the F-15. Six months ago he had set several time-to-climb world records in the F-15. He had been featured in a network news feature. The Walker career was still in afterburner, all right.

But a mid-air. Jesus. More ironic than a golden BB. Trey Jones and his friends knew all about irony. Strange turns of events had often shaped their careers and lives. He thought of the others.

Clay Porter was being groomed for future stars at Twelfth Air Force Headquarters in Austin, Texas. Jones had only seen Clay three or four times since Clay’s release from the Hanoi Hilton in ’73. Gayle and Clay had recently spent a weekend in Las Vegas, and the reunion of the two couples had seemed like old times.

Greg Simmons was an F-4E squadron commander at Seymour-Johnson Air Force Base in North Carolina. Not bad for someone born in the slums of Washington D.C., and had been laying street bricks for the District street department when he was fourteen. Greg’s squadron had participated in a Red Flag exercise several months ago, Greg and Trey had spent a long night on The Strip, and made their way back to the base in the cold, gray light of dawn. An old friendship unchanged.

Brad Stevens was on the faculty of the Air Force Academy. Several months ago Trey had a three-day TDY assignment to the Academy, and it gave him a chance to visit Lynn and Brad. He had dinner with them each night, sharing memories of good times.

He picked up the phone.

Two had made the supreme sacrifice, had paid the full wages of war. Rick Martin and Mike King. Jones sometimes felt guilty to be alive and still flying fighter jets. Guilt… irony…enough of that. He had a telephone call to make. He dialed and listened to the distant purr of the ringing.

Hello, said the soft, unmistakable voice.

Lynn Stevens. The image was vivid. Smooth, tan complexion. A soft flair of brown hair framing a face accented by high cheekbones and wide, gray eyes.

Hello? she repeated.

Lynn, this is Trey.

Trey! What a wonderful surprise. Where are you?

At Nellis.

It’s so good to hear you. How are Jan and the children?

They’re fine. He paused. Is Brad there, Lynn?

His tone told her this was not a pleasure call. Hesitantly, she answered, No…he’s playing golf. Another short pause, then, Trey, what’s wrong?

It’s Rob. An accident. Last night. A mid-air.

He’s…he wasn’t…

No, he’s alive, Lynn. He was en route to Nellis. Ejected over the mountains. New Mexico. The rescue chopper took him to Lowery this morning. I talked to the Lowery flight surgeon.

How badly is he hurt, Trey? Her voice trembled.

It’s bad. Major internal injuries. Extensive internal bleeding. He picked up his scrawled notes. Broken ribs, punctured lung. Maybe kidney. He said injuries had to be extensive. So much internal bleeding.

Oh, she said weakly. Something made her ask, There’s more, isn’t there?

He took a deep breath. Severe head injuries. He never regained consciousness, Lynn. They’ve transferred him to a Denver hospital.

Which hospital?

He referred to his notes again. A medical center. University of Colorado Medical Center. Near the base.

I’m familiar with it.

Lynn, call me anytime. Whether Brad knows I called or not, I’ll leave that to you. Whatever you think best. I’ll be getting frequent reports, so if you want to call me…

No, she interrupted gently. I’m going to him. It’s only an hour’s drive.

*     *     *

Jones drove slowly across the base to the officers club, the late Sunday morning sunshine filling the open Austin-Healey. He and his old sports car had long been a common sight at Nellis. He was often kidded about being a permanent fixture.

Nellis Air Force Base was unique. It had always been revered by fighter pilots as their spiritual home, and the fact that it was at the glitzy edge of Las Vegas seemed exactly right, just like it should be, they thought. The most advanced work in fighter aviation was done there: its Fighter Weapons Center the birthplace of fighter doctrine, its Red Flag program was the doctoral program for fighter pilots. Tactics development. The Thunderbirds aerobatic team and the newest TAC fighter were always based at Nellis. It was a paradox; the world’s fastest fighters surrounded by ancient sun-faded facilities and barren, crusted desert, but a paradox that also seemed exactly right.

The base streets were nearly empty on this Sunday morning and Trey’s thoughts returned to Lynn Stevens. She had kept it together during their conversation. He wasn’t surprised. Lynn had always kept her act together. She had been the quintessential Sixties woman: trim and tanned; perfect in the hip-hugging, bell-bottomed jean fashion and in the mini-skirt styles; naturally lissome and sexy when moving to any of the popular dances. The gal had class, he thought. Real class.

He geared down, and the Healey’s exhaust note became a low growl as he entered a palm tree-lined street which passed between rows of two-storied bachelor officers’ quarters and ended at the cul-de-sac fronting the low, gray building—the altogether undistinguished Nellis Officers Club. He parked, pushed the seat backs forward. The main bar wouldn’t be open, but he could get a Bloody Mary at the stag bar.

The stag bar was in the lower level of the sprawling building, and he felt a sense of proprietorship. During the most extensive grounding of the F-111, frustrated aviators had taken on a project of long lasting historical significance, creating a beyond-belief memorial: a stag bar of dark wood accented by leather and brass. An exclusive haunt. As he entered the dim room, the red-faced, white-haired bartender looked up from the limes he was slicing. Well, Colonel Jones, this is a surprise.

Need a Bloody Mary, Sam, said Jones as he slid onto a stool. He looked around. He was the only patron. Got a cigarette?

Thought you were quitting.

I am.

The bartender slid a pack of Winstons across the bar before starting to work on the vodka and spicy V8 juice. Don’t often see you here on Sundays. Something special going on?

No. Jones removed a cigarette from the pack and studied it. How long have you worked here, Sam? He lit the Winston.

Twelve years.

Remember Rob Walker? Brad Stevens?

You bet. F-111 jocks. Two of the best.

Remember the night we inaugurated this room?

Yep. Early sixty-nine. A final dash of Worcester, a slice of lime, a quick stir, and the drink was placed on a coaster in front of his customer. You guys got it just right, especially the bar. A perfect masterpiece, until you carved your names in it.

The inscriptions were still there, in the gleaming surface in front of him. He remembered how, with ceremonial dignity, the F-111 aviators had, one by one, carved their names in the gleaming mahogany. Quite a night, he exhaled.

Seemed to have a lot of those kind of nights back then. The older man returned to slicing his limes. Especially on Friday nights. He grinned again. "I’ll say this for you F-111 types. You knew how to liven up the place. You and your wives."

Those Friday nights. Happy hour in flight suits, unwinding with booze and airplane talk. Then joined by their wives. The bar lined three deep, tables crowded, loud and rowdy. The smell of spilled beer, the sounds of Credence Clearwater Revival. Later, slow dancing and whispers and flirtations. Friday nights at the officers club.

Like the man said, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times, Trey said thoughtfully. The F-111A had been a dangerous unknown during those first two years, every mission a roll of the dice. A crapshoot. Crashes and memorial services were frequent. Political pressure from LBJ and McNamara was unbelievable, and sometimes the wives looked at their husbands for signs that he was still okay, that he was coping with it all. The formal christening of the stag bar had been during the F-111’s darkest moments, a most tortured time that had even tested special friendships.

The Bloody Mary was good. The memories of those darkest moments were not. He took a long, final sip of his drink, put a couple of dollars on the bar, and paused for one more look at the carved names. He rose from the stool and said, Hang loose, Sam.

Always good to see you, Colonel.

Chapter 3

The white Mercedes-Benz SL cruised effortlessly along Inter-state 25, its sealed silence as much a character of the fine car as the solid ride and smell of leather. Sunlight reflected off the whiteness of snow-capped mountains to the west, and Lynn Stevens wrestled with her emotions. Should she be going to Rob? How could she not?

The Denver skyline was ahead. She glanced at the dash clock, checked the mirror and noted that she would be at the hospital in fifteen minutes or so unless traffic became a problem. Not likely on a Sunday afternoon. Toying with a stray wisp of hair she thought of the scene an hour ago when Brad had come in to find her packing, and she had told him of Trey’s call. When she told him she was going to the hospital his eyes clouded with pain and disappointment, but he had made no attempt to stop her.

She knew she was asking too much of him again, and that he couldn’t possibly understand. Once before—three years ago—she had told Brad that she had to go to Rob, to end it, and he had agreed, saying …but this is it. Put it behind you for once and for all. Three years ago. Bangkok. Absently she curled the strand of hair around her finger.

The community of the Tactical Air Command—the fighter command—although worldwide, was small and they sometimes bumped into former squadron mates. If the friendships had been at Nellis, conversations at these encounters pointedly avoided any mention of Rob, but when given an opportunity in privacy she would ask about him.

The most recent instance had been an unexpected meeting with Jane and Frazier Talbott, friends from Tucson who knew nothing of what had happened at Nellis. During the visit, Frazier told them of a trip to Florida a couple of months earlier when they had seen Rob at a small nightclub on the beach at Fort Walton. He chuckled as he described Rob’s arrival, speeding recklessly into the club driveway, spraying gravel as he slid to a stop and then staggering into the club with a pretty, drunken blonde on his arm. We went to his table and visited for a while, but I doubt he remembered it the next day, Talbott said, and then he had become serious as he added, Rob’s chasing hard after life these days. Using Dewar’s for a high-octane fuel.

As Talbott concluded his story, Brad had remained stonily silent.

Put it behind you for once and for all, and now, again, she was asking her husband to understand this complex emotion that should have died long ago. Complex and wrong. God, this was a cruel thing to do to Brad. She slowed as she entered the outskirts of the city, traffic becoming heavier now as she passed the John F. Kennedy Park exit. Her exit onto Colorado Boulevard wasn’t much further.

She had ‘put it behind her’, but she couldn’t act as if there had been no past friendships, as if their families had not once been close. Those relationships had existed, but the other had also existed, and now he may be dying and she had to go to him.

She let up on the gas as she approached the green exit sign for Colorado Boulevard and the University of Colorado Medical Center. Five minutes later she parked at the hospital. She stepped from the car, turned up the collar of her light leather coat and adjusted her scarf, leaving an overnight case and a thin garment bag in the back seat. She briskly walked the short distance to the main entrance, the doors hissed open automatically and she crossed the spacious foyer to the information desk. Yes, the volunteer said, pointing toward the row of elevators, she could go to the intensive care ward on three, but she would have to check in at the nurse’s station.

An elevator waited. Lynn stepped in, pushed the button and watched the floor indicator illuminate ‘3’ as the elevator came to a silent stop. She followed the brightly polished corridor, the click of her heels echoing ahead of her. When she reached the nurse’s station, no one was there. A minute passed. Still no one.

She stepped past the sign prohibiting ‘visitors without passes’ and stopped at double doors identified as ‘ICU-1’. Through the door’s window she saw two rows of three beds separated by a wide aisle. An identical set of doors to ‘ICU-2’ was to her left, but she needed to look no further.

His head and the left side of his face were heavily bandaged, but she could see enough to recognize him. A nurse on the other side of the bed bent over him, examining his eyes with a small light. Tubes dangled from bladder-like containers held high by stainless steel frames, and ran to his arms. A catheter tube looped under the white sheets to the lower part of his body, the plastic bag hanging below the side of the bed. To the side was a resuscitator, its large, vacuum cleaner-sized hose connected to an adapter held in place at his mouth by wide strips of surgical tape. His hands were taped to the bed’s rails. The sight shocked her, but she couldn’t take her eyes from him.

May I help you? someone asked from behind her.

She turned to the voice. The nurse was perhaps in her late forties, dressed in starched whites. Her light brown hair curled at her shoulders. She had a pleasant face, a professional expression. Glasses rested low on her nose. The nametag said Shields.

Yes, I was hoping to see a patient in intensive care.

The patient’s name?

Walker. Rob Walker.

Are you related to Mr. Walker? The nurse held a blue-covered file.

Yes, she said without hesitation.

He’s unconscious. He won’t know you’re here.

I know. But I’m from out of town, you see. I drove here to see him, even if only for a minute. The nurse completed her brief review of the file as Lynn asked, Is he going to be…will he be all right?

It’s too early to know with brain trauma cases like this. The nurse closed the file.

May I see him?

I think so. You’ll need a surgical gown and cap.

The aqua gown fit loosely over her clothing. The nurse led her into the ward, showed her where to stand, then stepped away. Lynn waited while the other nurse continued her examination of Rob’s injuries. The bandages and tubes were mesmerizing, their reality so much more imposing now that she stood near his bed. How had he survived? The nurse inspected the bandages, checked the tubes and IV containers and needles taped to his arms and in the veins of his hands, and then she moved to the foot of the bed to make an entry in the medical chart.

His face was battered, swollen, and purple with bruises. One eye was swollen closed. The last time she saw him he had been so strong, but now he was helpless. Three years. Bangkok. One wonderful, bittersweet day. On leave from his secret duties and browned by the Asian sun, he had been so capable of fighting his secret war. Now he lay in this antiseptic world, battered and hurt and helpless, depending upon trickling drops of clear liquids and hoses carrying invisible oxygen to keep him alive.

The nurse completed her entry and replaced the charts, when suddenly he moved! He turned toward Lynn, staring as if he were trying his best to focus, and then he suddenly turned again, jerking the resuscitator hose with him. Lynn stood frozen, her breath caught in her throat. The nurse hurried to him. Shields! she called sharply, "he’s seizing!" She pushed a button for assistance and then leaned over his bed.

Immediately after the nurse’s warning, it happened. His body