At The Klaxon's Call

A Novel

by Phil Rowe

Copyright 1998

Al Spivens, Fred Anderson and Ben Collins are a team. They trained together, worked together and in this story suffer a variety of calamities together. They are a U.S. Air Force flight crew. And this is the story of how their special, but routine existence dramatically changed to become extraordinary, even terrifying. These three men of the mid-1960's are heroes, of a sort. Their adversaries include men, the military system, aircraft equipment, the weather, and even the "evil empire" known as the Soviet Union. This is a story only, but it is based on fact for the most part, and clearly embellished with accounts of "what if?" Their feelings, thoughts and many experiences were real to men of the Strategic Air Command living through the Cold War era of the 50's, 60's and 70's. The year is 1964.

Your author was for half a decade a member of one of these B-58 air crews and experienced first-hand much of what this story's fictional characters endured. This book is dedicated to the men who built, flew and supported the B-58 Hustler, America's first supersonic strategic bomber.

Chapter One - The Crew

Major Alfred R. Spivens (just Al, to his friends) trained as a P-51 fighter pilot in the immediate post-WW2 era. His favorite airplane was clearly the hot performing Mustang, but then most pilots loved that bird, even those who never flew it. Al had two choices, as a surplus pilot in the era immediately following the Korean Conflict, get out of the service and try for an airline career or accept General Lemay's invitation to join the Strategic Air Command (SAC) and fly the brand new B-47 jet bombers. It was an easy choice, for back then Al had no multi-engine time and knew he wouldn't be sought by the airlines.

The B-47 brought new challenges and excitement to Al, and helped his career greatly. For a former single-engine fighter jock, it was a new experience to fly with a crew. Decisions no longer rested on the shoulders of one man. Now he had to deal with input from radar navigators and copilots. But the greatest challenge was dealing with the demands and high standards of SAC itself. Fighter jocks are free spirits, but SAC didn't allow that modus operandi. Standardization and flying by the book was never more exemplified than in SAC, and Al had to adapt or fail. He managed to conform, but never lost entirely that fighter jock penache. He quickly advanced from copilot to aircraft commander and got his own crew.

When the brand new Mach 2 B-58 Hustler came along, Al was one of the very first B-47 aircraft commanders (AC's) to volunteer. It was the latest and greatest, the hottest airplane in the SAC inventory. Al just had to be a part of the program. So, with Lady Luck in his pocket, Al managed to get into the program with the early group of transitioning pilots. Part of the transition meant flying the TF-102 delta winged fighter to learn the characteristics of that type of airplane. The B-58 was of such a design and it behaved differently from conventionally winged airplanes. It

didn't break Al's heart to once again tool around the skies in a fighter.

Another passion in Al's heart was cars, especially modifying old cars to make them hot performers. It wasn't hot rods or those garishly painted vehicles which turned on teenagers. No, not at all. It was customizing his 1939 Ford coupe, by adding a Cadillac engine, two-speed Columbia rear end, and fancy tuck and roll leather upholstery. That car became his signature toy. But he drove a clunker to work and provided his wife with a standard Cadillac hard top sedan. Al was a man of many facets.

He had seen some of his contemporaries fall by the wayside in their careers by failing to excel in their profession. Al was determined not to be like them, so he worked hard, trained hard and demanded much of himself and those who flew with him. Approachable and friendly to all, Al is deep down a no-nonsense professional. And he is a damn good pilot, clearly excelling in instrument flight.

Frederick David Anderson (Fred) came into the Air Force via the ROTC route from college. He got into the navigator business quite by accident, simply accepting the fact that his name was placed on a class list by his ROTC instructor. The next thing he knew he was on a B-26 flight crew and being trained for combat in Korea, only that conflict ended before he got shipped overseas. He was a capable, if not outstanding, navigator and radar bombardier who got along by going along. Fred was not known as a "fast burner" destined for greatness or rapid promotion.

But Fred was a sleeper in many ways. He took pride in polishing and proving his skills as a radar navigator(RN). For many months in his B-47 days he was among the best performing and most consistent radar navigators. His bombing scores were good and soon that came to the attention of those above him. By chance, with the unexpected discharge from the service of Al's regular navigator, Fred wound up flying with Al in the latter days of that program. They got along well and Fred continued to consistently rack up good scores.

Fred's passion, outside of his family and young daughters, was golf. He played often and well, though never good enough to be competitive. Golf was an escape from the rigors of SAC life and a great way to enjoy the camaraderie of fellow golfers. He may have had a "Walter Mitty" dream of playing professionally. Fred seldom missed a stop by the 19th hole.

When Al volunteered for the B-58, he convinced Fred to join him, so they came into the Hustler program as a team. Fred was sent to California for a brief course on the B-58's navigation and bombing equipment before rejoining Al in Texas for formal transition training in that new supersonic wonder.

The B-58 carried a third crew member, one not exactly known in bombers before. That was the Defensive Systems Operator (DSO). The DSO's primary job was defense of the airplane through use of electronic countermeasures equipment intended to confuse and foil enemy radars. The B-58 also carried a tail gun, a radar controlled 20mm Gatling gun that could spew out bullets at 4000 rounds per minute. The DSO's aft seat in the tandemly arranged Hustler included the tail gun control systems.

But the DSO's real job was that of a combined flight engineer and co-pilot, a kind of co-pilot without a stick, that is. He was responsible for aircraft performance calculations, managing fuel and aircraft CG, and doing practically all of the communications chores. Additionally, the DSO read the checklist to his pilot and made sure that the tasks were properly accomplished in a timely fashion. That hot performing B-58 was unforgiving of those who didn't stay ahead of it and fully aware of flight conditions over a very wide range of speeds and altitudes. Much more than the relationship between the AC and the RN, was that of the AC and the DSO in forming a team which made flying that airplane possible. It was the RN's job to get them to the target, but it was the AC and DSO who kept the airplane flying.

Into this new role of DSO came Benjamin Randolph Collins (Ben). Ben came into the mix as the newcomer, the outsider and a strange breed of airman unknown to his colleagues on the B-58 crew. Ben came from the B-52 program, where he had flown as an electronic warfare officer and also as a radar navigator, at times. He was a multi-rated aviator and an off-duty light plane pilot.

Ben came into the Air Force as an enlisted man, trained early on as an air traffic controller. Failing to qualify for pilot training, because of his eyesight, he wound up in navigation school. He never understood why being too near-sighted to be a pilot meant he was capable of using stars, light years away, to guide his airplanes. But he excelled in navigation and radar bombing, serving a stint as an instructor in Texas, at times even training pilots headed for B-47's.

When the "needs of the service" dictated that he attend an electronic countermeasures course and further add to his aviation skills, he soon found himself aboard the then-new B-52 Stratofortress, which replaced the lumbering B-36's as SAC's heavy bombers. And when SAC decided it needed to move some B-52 electronic warfare officers (EWO) to the even newer B-58's, Ben found himself again in a challenging new environment.

It wasn't until these three men found themselves together in B-58 transition school, that a wholly new relationship between flight crew members evolved. Al and Fred were long-time friends, comfortable with each other and respecting one another's skills and abilities. But Ben was a new and an unproven commodity. Earning their acceptance and respect became even harder for Ben than making the transition to a supersonic airplane.

The crew went through transition training in Texas before being sent to their home base in Indiana. In SAC's totem pole pecking order of things, they were eventually designated as S-14, a select crew. They came up the ladder from non-ready status (N-14) and were quickly declared combat ready (R-14). After becoming instructors and flight evaluators, they advanced to lead crew (L-14) and finally designated as a select crew (S-14). The number '14' merely indicated that they were the 14th crew in the Bomb Wing to complete the transition into the B-58.

A select few of the lead crews ("lead " referring to the old WW2 designation of a bomber crew that would lead a formation of other bombers to the targets) could be chosen as "select" and become eligible for temporary "spot" promotions in rank, if the SAC headquarters officials deemed them worthy. S-14 hadn't yet received their promotions, but they were hopeful. SAC was authorized far fewer promotion slots than there were eligible flight crews.

Ben was not known as passionate about anything. He was devoted to his wife and two children, but his manner and demeanor were hardly passionate. He dabbled at the game of golf, but lost interest. He enjoyed the outdoors, camping and fishing, but it was not his passion. Perhaps the closest thing to a passionate cause in his life was the burning desire to complete his education. His two years of college was not enough, so Ben took night courses to fill a void which nagged at him and thwarted his career prospects. He was determined to earn a college degree.

Al, Fred and Ben were successful largely by their own hard work, but also by good measure of luck at being in the right place at the right time.

Chapter Two - To the Mole Hole

"C'mon, Ben ... time to go," greeted Al, his head leaning out the driver's side window of that beat up old Plymouth, his bucket of bolts spewing a cloud of exhaust smoke out onto the just-shoveled driveway. Al's vintage 4-door sedan was just his going-to-work car, barely capable of getting around that Strategic Air Command base in northern Indiana. It was the unofficial crew bus and the source of much derision from Al's fellow pilots, and quite in contrast to the sleek supersonic B-58 bombers that he and his three-man crew flew.

"Hey, don't forget your briefcase ... or my kiss, Hon," reminded Ben's wife as she helped get her man off for another week's duty on SAC Alert. She stood at the kitchen door in her bathrobe and slippers in the cold of a gray winter morning. This was a routine she knew well, for every third Thursday it was the same.

"Morning, Fred," Ben said to his sleepy-eyed navigator sitting in the back seat. "Uh .. 'mornin'," came the mumbled response from his barely awake colleague. Ben tossed his B-4 bag, briefcase and a heavy long box onto the floor next to Fred. Then he got into the front passenger's seat and slammed the door closed. He had to slam it or it wouldn't latch properly.

Sally waved good-bye to her husband and the rest of the crew, as the car eased out of the driveway onto the icy streets. Al waved and added, "I'll bring him back next Thursday. See ya, Sal," and the old sedan headed toward the flightline, down at the end of a long street from the on-base housing area.

"Gotta swing by squadron headquarters before we drive over to the Mole Hole," Al explained. The 'Mole Hole' was the unofficial name given to the underground facility near the end of the runway, their home for the next week. "I want to check the simulator schedule, 'cause I think we're supposed to give some check rides today and tomorrow."

"Yeah, that right. We're supposed to give final simulator rides for a couple of new crews. And if they pass, they'll be ready for their last flight checks pretty soon. We need new blood, so maybe Alert won't come around so often." Al's crew was one of a half dozen instructor and evaluators, responsible for upgrading new B-58 flight crews coming into the outfit.

Al pulled up in front of the squadron headquarters building near the flightline. The 377th Bombardment Squadron, of the 18th Bombardment Wing(Medium), was one of three B-58 units on the base. Each had some 30 crews, in addition to the administrative and leadership personnel assigned. It's commanding officer was Lieutenant Colonel Wilson, a long time SAC pilot whose career included WW2 bomber flying in B-29's. His right hand man was Lt. Col. Art Kearny, designated as Operations Officer and the one in charge of getting and keeping 377th crews combat ready.

Al dashed into the building, while the others sat in the still running car. In a few seconds he came out with some papers in hand. "Yup ... we're scheduled to give N-27 a simulator ride this afternoon and N-29 tomorrow. Looks like they're going to keep us busy on this Alert tour of duty," Al explained. "Guess we'd better get over there and get our plane checked out, cocked and ready. And, oh yes ... there is one other thing you two ought to know."

"What's that?" Fred mumbled from the back seat.

"Oh, nothing much ... except our spot promotions came through, Major. You too, Major Ben Collins."

"All right," Ben excitedly responded. "Does that mean we have to call you Colonel Al now?"

"Well, it's Lieutenant Colonel Al Spivens now, I suppose. Our promotions came through last night and at the expense of the boys in the 88th Bomb Wing in Ohio. Those guys flunked their Operational Readiness Inspection (ORI) and all of their spots were taken away."

"Aw .. that's sad, really sad," Fred sarcastically replied in feigned sorrow for the crews of the 88th.

"Major Collins, eh? That has a nice ring to it. Oh boy, wait 'til Sally hears about this. Yahoo."

"Hey you two, keep it down. When we get out to the Alert facility, the Wing Commander will be there to make the official announcement. We're not supposed to know about this yet. I just happened to see the spot promotion list on Kearny's desk when I was looking for the simulator schedule. So just play it cool and act surprised. Okay? You got that?"

"Yeah, got it," Fred responded, but the big smile across his ugly face couldn't hide his obvious delight.

"Okay ... me too. I got it," echoed Ben.

It was just before 7:30 when Al parked the Plymouth in the lot just outside the Alert facility's barbed wire fence. The crew gathered up their gear and lugged it toward the guard gate. A dozen other crews were trickling in at the same time and the guard meticulously checked each man's identification badge and checked their names against the roster given to him by the Alert Facility manager.

"C'mon, airman. It's cold out here. Can't we speed this up?" Fred complained to the harried guard.

"I'm working as fast as I can, Captain," the guard responded, from the warmth of the guard shack door.

Soon the crews gained access to the "Mole Hole" and headed to the lower level where their living quarters were. Each 3-man crew was assigned separate rooms. Rooms were not fancy, but they were comfortable enough. Twin-sized beds for each man, a shared desk and two lounge chairs pretty well filled the limited space. Three wall lockers were provided for storing and securing personal belongings.

Up on the ground level of that two-story partially buried concrete structure was a dining hall, a briefing room-auditorium, and several administrative offices, as well as a television lounge, small library and a game room. Crews were due in the briefing room at 0800 hours sharp.

Al Spivens headed for his seat in the middle of the auditorium, carrying a cup of hot coffee just obtained from the dining room. The auditorium was full, as incoming crews of the 377th joined men from their sister squadron, the 378th, anxious to be relieved of their week-long tour of alert duty. They were more than ready for a four-day break from all the togetherness that alert duty imposed. Not only were the 378th flight crews ready to be relieved, so too were the maintenance and ground crews that also pulled alert duty for the past week. Some 55 to 60 men would get to go home and be replaced by as many just coming on.

As the wall clock in the front of the briefing room approached the time for morning briefing and the formal change-over of crews, Lieutenant Colonel Sam Osterman, Alert Facility manager, approached the rostrum. The room was filled almost to capacity, as flight crews took their seats and Sergeant Abernathy turned on the overhead projector which cast upon the screen the logo of the 18th Bombardment Wing.

"Coming up on 0800 hours, gentlemen, in five, four, three, two, one .. Hack," Osterman declared. Watches synchronized, he then moved on to reading the roster and calling roll for both the out-going and on-coming flight crews. That done, he proceeded with the reading of several administrative announcements.

Al just finished the last of his coffee and slipped the cup under his seat, when Osterman shouted, "Crews .. Attention!!" as Wing Commander Harvey Briggs entered the room from the rear door. The room exploded into a clatter of chairs and shuffling of feet as everybody quickly stood up. Al's coffee cup rattled against the leg of his chair, its sound clearly heard by those nearby, as smiles and a few snickers quickly faded as Colonel Briggs passed that row of chairs.

Colonel Briggs stepped up onto the stage and Osterman yielded the rostrum, as Briggs loudly said, "At ease, gentlemen. Have a seat. Good morning."

Al sat down, reaching to retrieve his errant cup, while Ben tried to keep from laughing.

"I guess you fellows know that the 18th Bomb Wing is overdue for it's ORI. And we're ripe. Damn ripe. I expect we'll be hit any day now. The 88th had their's last week and didn't fare too well, as you may have heard. That's sad news for them, I guess. But in a way it brought an unexpected Christmas present to us. I'm pleased this morning to announce that a few of our crews are the direct beneficiaries of their loss. Select crews S-8 and S-14 will receive spot promotions, effective immediately. Major Spivens S-14 and Captain Anderson S-8, you and your crews please step up here."

As Al, Fred and Ben moved toward the stage, along with the three crewmen of S-8, Colonel Briggs continued, "Crews S-12 and S-22 of the 376th also got promotions today.

I'm sorry to have to say that those select crews in the 378th were not eligible because they didn't have the required time-in-grade. Maybe next time, boys."

Briggs came down onto the main floor and shook the hands of each man getting that coveted spot promotion. When he finished, there was a round of applause from the other men. Then S-8 and S-14 crewmen returned to their seats. Briggs returned to the rostrum.

In addition to the 24 bomber crews in the room, six KC-135 tanker crews were also changing over. Those fellows, glad enough to be relieved of their alert duty stint, didn't share in the enthusiasm of their bomber crew companions. For tanker crews were not eligible for spot promotions. That was one of the unfair aspects of the system designed to reward top performing bomber crews only.

There was justifiable resentment on the part of tanker crewmen, for they worked every bit as hard as bomber crews and took many of the same flight risks. They also endured the same rigors of training, testing and evaluations of their combat readiness. The unfairness of the system made some tanker men feel like second class SAC members.

Sergeant Abernathy placed a new slide onto the projector, this one shouting in big bold print the words "O.R.I. Guidelines". Colonel Briggs began, "Since we're still on the hook for this year's Operational Readiness Inspection, I want to spend a few moments this morning to review the requirements we must meet. This is serious business and we do have much to lose. Those fellows in the 88th found that out the hard way and we don't want to repeat their mistakes."

For the next half hour the crews were subjected to a series of slides and talks about the various things the an ORI would evaluate, including written tests, where the only acceptable passing score was 100%. That critical item involved the positive control procedures whereby flight crews had to knew precisely the rules for going to war and how to process radio or other messages which might send them on their way. There was no allowable margin for error there.

Crews were also to be tested on their knowledge of nuclear weapons procedures, their assigned Alert missions and enemy targets and threats enroute. SAC headquarters was very strict about crews on Alert knowing their stuff.

But crew actions in response to the initiation of the ORI were just as important. Response times to the klaxon horn were measured. How fast could crews get to their planes, get them started and ready for take-off? And, how well could they fly the simulated mission and accomplish the various actions required? What were their simulated bombing scores? How accurate were their navigation methods, reaching a set of prescribed destinations? Did they successfully rendezvous with aerial tankers and take on the prescribed fuel? And how well did they do in electronic warfare exercises against special ground-based radar simulators? There was a whole set of hurdles to overcome in passing the ORI's strict standards.

Some ORI requirements were quantitatively measured, while others were qualitatively evaluated. The performance of both individual flight crews and the organization as a whole would determine passing or failure. The pressure on crews, support personnel and the commander's staff was enormous. But then that's the way SAC headquarters wanted it.

"So, gentlemen, that's what we're up against. My guess is that you fellows will be the ones to carry the ball. But I know you're ready. You proved it last year, when the 377th was also on alert and the horn went off." And then Briggs smiled, adding "but please guys, bring the airplanes home this time." The room filled with laughter as the crews of the 377th knew only too well what Briggs was talking about. Last year the crews took off on their simulated missions and couldn't make it back home because of bad weather. They went instead to Fort Worth, Texas and had to spend several days down there before the weather cleared in Indiana. The 18th BW wasn't penalized, but Briggs was tearing his hair out trying to re-constitute the Alert forces with airplanes missing. It was the aircraft maintenance people who bore the brunt of that effort, getting other planes uploaded and ready to replace the missing 12 bombers stuck in sunny, warm Texas.

Just as soon as the briefing was over, Al headed back toward the dining hall for more coffee. "Ben, Fred ... meet you at the vehicle. We'll load our stuff and check out the bird before heading across the field for the simulator."

It was time now for S-14 to meet the out-going crew at the airplane parked just a few yards from the Alert Facility door. The other crew would un-cock the airplane and remove their equipment. Then Al's crew would check over the airplane, load their gear and re-cock it to be ready for instant engine star and take-off.

"What have you got in that box?" Fred asked Ben. It was that same box he earlier put into Al's car. "And why are you stowing it in the airplane?"

"Just something ... something you may be glad I brought along," Ben elusively and vaguely replied.

Cocking the airplane meant pre-positioning switches to make rapid engine start and equipment activation possible. Some equipment would be placed in the STANDBY mode, awaiting application of electrical power from the generator cart parked nearby. Other items, such as radios, could be set to ON and pre-channeled to immediately come up on the Command Post and control tower frequencies. There were dozens of steps involved in cocking the airplane.

The off-going crew was relieved and S-14 now accepted responsibility for the airplane and the wartime mission it might be sent to accomplish, should the klaxon's call be the real thing and now just the dreaded ORI.

Back in the Alert Facility, Al stopped by Osterman's office to report that airplane #075 was cocked and ready. And he mentioned that his crew was signing out for a session in the flight simulator, right after lunch.

Lunchtime in the Mole Hole was busy. Crews went through the cafeteria line and were served a variety of menu choices. The food was very good, for the CINCSAC insisted that his "boys" be well taken care of, as the front-line of our nuclear deterrent forces. There were some benefits of being stuck on Alert duty for a week at a time.

"Finish you soup, Ben. We gotta get over to the simulator, you know." Al was concerned that they not be late for the scheduled session with N-27, Captain Elliot's crew. The simulator was tightly scheduled and frequently in use 24 hours a day. Actually, it wasn't just "the" simulator. It was a set of three inter-connected but separable simulators, one for each of the three members of the flight crew.

The pilot's simulator had motion capabilities, a cockpit replica elevated on hydraulic pistons to impart greater realism by imparting motion corresponding to pilot actions. The navigator and Defensive System Operator simulators were fixed, but integrated to the pilot's unit so that cockpit instruments, interphone links and emergency lights responded just as the would in the airplane itself. Instructor consoles immediately aft of each crew position seat enabled monitoring of student actions.

Crew N-27 waited in a small classroom just outside the simulator complex. "Congratulations, Colonel Spivens, greeted Captain Elliot, as Al walked in. "And to you too, Major Collins and Major Anderson," he added as Ben and Fred appeared.

"Thanks. It was quite a surprise for us. So? You fellows ready for your turn in the 'box'?," Al inquired.

"Yes, sir. And here is our flight plan and the charts we'll use for today's 'flight'." Elliot's navigator spread out a number of navigational charts, each marked with the planned route of flight and annotated with action items along the way. Al, Fred and Ben looked over the preparations made by their student crew.

"Looks good, so let's do it," Al commented, with his fellow crewmen nodding in agreement. Separately, each of the student crew members, accompanied by their respective instructors, headed for their individual simulator cockpits in the main bay of that huge concrete block building. The hum of electrical equipment was loud, made even moreso by the cooling fans protecting the vacuum tube equipment racks.

That multi-million dollar simulator facility was especially important for the B-58, because there was no room aboard the actual airplane for instructors or evaluators. Everything had to be done in the 'box', before crews could go fly in the real airplane.

Several times a week, S-14 conducted simulator training and evaluation 'rides' for upgrading crews and for evaluation of combat ready crews. And S-14 underwent its own check rides annually too, for aircrew proficiency checks and practice of war missions was a way of life in SAC. You were either getting or giving check rides or training all the time, even when on Alert duty.

After the simulator 'flight', S-14 conducted a critique of N-27's performance, pointing out both the good and the not-so-good elements of their performance. If the crew met the minimum standards, they passed. If not, well they could be sent back to their squadron for more training and then re-tested. Today N-27 did just fine.

"Say, Al .. ," Fred began. "How about stopping by the base exchange before we head back to the Alert facility? I need some things I forgot to get yesterday. Okay?"

"Yeah, sure. You ready to go, Ben?"

As they did at all times when on Alert, S-14 and every other crew went places and did things as a group. If one had to go to the base exchange, all had to go. If one wanted to meet his wife at the Officers' Club, they all went.

Togetherness was so ingrained that the joke was, if one had to go to the bathroom, they all went. Such was life on a SAC Alert crew. But it was easier in B-58's, for there were just three on a crew, unlike B-52's with six or even KC-135's with four.

Back in the Alert Facility, Al signed the crew IN and they headed for their room on the lower level. "You know, Al," Ben began. Those fellows on Elliot's crew did pretty well. A heck of a lot better than on their last ride in the box. Do you think they're ready for their check flight in the airplane?"

"Yeah .. I think so. Elliot's a little tentative in a few areas, but I think he's ready. What say you, Fred?"

"Sure. The navigator's ready, but then he ought to be. You know he has more experience in the air than we do. He was a check navigator in B-47's before coming here. Yeah, he's ready all right."

"Okay, then I'll tell the operations Officer to schedule them for a flight a week from Monday. We'll have to be there to monitor their preflight and pat 'em on the butt before they take off. Monday it is."

So began the routine week on Alert for S-14. But sometimes things don't always stay routine.

Chapter Three - Day Two

The next morning after breakfast, on Friday, the crews once again headed for the briefing room. This time it was for the routine weather report, some administrative matters and announcements about schedules, airplane checks and the like. Once again Lt. Col. Osterman began with the time hack and roll call.

Then he stepped over to a television monitor mounted high on a bracket to the side of the rostrum. He turned it on and spoke into an intercom box on the wall below the tube. "Okay, Captain Abraham ... we're ready for weather." Abraham was across the base in Base Operations and would remotely present the weather reports and forecasts, for the local area and over the north Atlantic, polar regions and parts of Scandinavia. There was little detailed information available of what the weather was over the Soviet Union.

"Good morning, gentlemen. It looks like our good weather won't last. A cold front is rapidly moving down from the Dakotas, bringing lower temperatures and more snow. In fact, I think we'll see visibilities dropping here by mid-afternoon as the storm approaches. Accumulations could be 10 to 12 inches before dark."

Fred leaned over toward Al, saying "Well that does it. This is a replay of last year when the weather turned stinko just as the ORI hit." Al just nodded and continued making notes of weather information needed for takeoff.

Abraham continued, this time the screen showing frontal patterns and winds aloft between Indiana and northern Europe. "Looks like your refueling areas off Labrador and Greenland will be overcast, clouds solid from 10,000 feet to over 30,000 feet, with some clearing the farther east you go. Winds aloft will be predominantly westerly, with the jet stream passing just north of Great Britain. You'll have tailwinds most of the way. And it looks like skies will be clear as you approach enemy territory."

"The bad guys want to assure themselves it'll be easy to spot us coming in," Ben muttered. "That ought to make it easier for them. Where is the cloud cover when you need it?"

Abraham concluded by asking if there were any questions, adding "Hard copies of these wind charts will be available in the Alert Facility by telefax within the hour. Thank you, gentlemen. Have a nice day."

Up on the front row sat Lt. Col. Kearny. Al was surprised to see him. When Osterman concluded his words, he turned and asked if the senior aircraft commander had anything to add. Kearny was on alert himself, substituting for one of the pilots who had to go away on emergency leave in the night. Kearny stood up and turned to the group.

"Yes, Sam .. I've got a few items here. Looks like the weather is going to turn bad on us, fellows. So I want you to remember to put the windshield covers on your vehicles when you park them. And if the snow accumulates at bad as Abraham predicts, that could restrict crews to the Alert Facility this afternoon. Can't have crews stuck out there unable to get to their airplanes. You guys check the bulletin board before leaving any time after noon. I'll let you know if we're restricted to this side of the base.

This will also mean that the snowplows and snow removal troops will be working in the aircraft parking area, so give 'em a break and stay out of their way as much as possible."

Turning back to Osterman, Kearny said that was all he had. "One more thing," Osterman added. "Crew R-19, Captain Smith. You fellows have an airplane change this morning. Stop by my office and I'll give you the details. That's it, gentlemen. Now you can go preflight your birds."

Al caught up with Kearny before the room emptied. "We're giving N-29 a simulator check ride today, Art. So that means we'll be across the base for most of the afternoon."

Art nodded in agreement, adding , "The sooner you guys get these new crews upgraded, the sooner I get off this bit of filling in for every AC that can't make it. I'll give you guys a call over there if the weather gets too bad."

Al routinely went back to the dining hall, empty coffee cup in hand. Fred and Ben headed down to their room to get their parkas. "Meet you at the airplane, Al," shouted Ben as they went separate ways. Ben muttered something about Al having a 40-gallon bladder. "How does he drink all that stuff?"

S-14 approached their airplane, #075, under the first shelter at the opening of the "Christmas Tree" parking area leading to a high speed taxiway and the active runway. The Crew Chief awaited and smartly saluted, handing the maintenance record book to Al. "She's ship shape, sir. Are you going to run engines this morning?"

Al perused the record of maintenance actions, noting as he did yesterday that the aft tank fuel quantity probe had recently been replaced. "Yes, sergeant. I think it's time for a run up and to double check the fuel transfer system." Turning to Ben, he added," Let's move a little fuel around and see if the aft tank gauge works properly."

"Yes, sir," the crew chief acknowledged. "We'll call for a fuel truck to top you off after the engine run-up. And would you roll her forward a couple of feet, so we can check the tires. She's been sitting in the same spot for several days and they're probably flat on the bottom." Al nodded in agreement, as the three crewmen began their external walk-around checks of 075.

That sleek and shiny airplane looked like it was raring to go. She looked fast just sitting there, with that delta wing swept back at an angle, her four jet engines packing enough power to take her to 1400 miles per hour. The suspended bomb pods, four little ones under the wing and a huge compound one under the fuselage, made the Hustler bomber look quite different from other SAC aircraft. She had no internal bomb bay, all weapons were carried externally.

Soon the three men climbed the 14-foot access stand to their individual tandem cockpits, Al up front, Fred in the middle and Ben headed for the aft cockpit near the leading edge of the wing. Each man's individual station was accessible only from above, with upward tilting canopies raised like wind scoops atop the narrow forward fuselage. Soon the men descended into the isolation of their own private domains. The only communication between them would be by interphone ... and a Rube Goldberg clothesline with a small leather pouch, which enabled them to exchange notes. There was no physical movement between cockpits.

The noisy electrical generator cart hummed, and then the high pressure jet engine starter cart whined and screamed, with its turbine-fed hose connected to the airplane. B-58's were dependent upon an array of ground support equipment. You couldn't hand-prop those birds. And each of the dozen alert airplanes had their own set of carts, hoses and stands. It got pretty noisy in that Alert area at times like this, and none of the planes had yet started their roaring, afterburner-equipped engines. Ear protective equipment was a must for the ground crews.

Overhead canopies closed as engine-start time approached. The aircraft sprang to life as the jet engines started and power switched to the on-board generators. Instrument lights came on, radios crackled with background static and Fred's navigation system came on line. The roar of the four high-thrust jets resonated throughout the A-frame shelters designed to protect the aircraft from the elements.

Al and Ben ran through a series of fuel system checks and transfers from tank to tank. The aft tank gauge appeared to be working. Fred reported that his navigation systems were all working. As a last item, Al moved the airplane forward a bit to roll the tires over 180 degrees. Then engines were shut down and the crew went through the Cocking Checklist to ready their craft for immediate launch. The fuel truck came into view off to Al's left, as the engines whined down to a stop.

"Looks great," Al declared to the Crew Chief now kneeling beside him on the entry stand, as the front canopy lifted. "Let's top her off ... probably just 2000 pounds ought to do." In just a few minutes, the refueling was done, and the crew left for the Alert Facility, and yet another cup of coffee for Al.

The routine of Alert duty continued, but was soon to change.

Chapter Four - Routine No More

Crew N-29 sat in their respective seats in the flight simulator, as Al, Fred and Ben monitored their performance.

Things were going pretty well, but outside the snow began falling hard. Blizzard conditions enveloped that northern Indiana air base with a vengeance. But inside the windowless concrete building, with its noisy electrical motors, pumps and fans, S-14 had no idea what was going on outdoors.

Fred double-checked the bombing data which his student entered into the console in front of him. He said not a word, but noted on his score sheet the erroneous settings that would cause the simulated bomb run to fail. Sadly, this crew was about to flunk the exercise, and there was nothing Fred could do about it.

Ben was more pleased with his student's efforts, confident that his younger DSO under evaluation could take the upcoming flight check in stride. There was a lull in the simulation so the two engaged in some banter unrelated to the tasks at hand.

Ben was just about to mention something about his student soon getting a chance to enjoy the delights of alert duty, when the room suddenly resounded with the raucous jolting sound ... AAHOOOGAA ... AAHOOOGAA ... AAHOOOGAA ...

In an instant, Al shouted over the interphone connecting all three simulators and the instructor stations,

"C'mon guys .. let's go. And you fellows will have to be re-scheduled for another ride. We gotta run. Could be just a practice scramble ... or the ORI." Al hit the emergency shutdown button and the pilot's elevated simulator descended to the stowed position. He slid his seat away from the console, grabbed his jacket and hat, and jumped off the platform for the floor.

Fred and Ben similarly abandoned their simulator stations and ran for the door. Outside their blue government station wagon was backed into the reserved spots for Alert crews. Ben yanked the windshield cover off as Al jumped into the driver's seat. In seconds the crew headed out of the parking lot and toward the closest access gate to the flightline. The snow was deep, some eight inches on the roadway already.

The guard on the gate waved the speeding alert vehicle through, as Al turned toward the main taxiway and the Alert aircraft parking area at the end of the runway. The red flashing light atop their vehicle reflected in the falling snow, those huge white flakes piling up everywhere.

"Damn ... I can't see a thing," Al protested as the white covered taxiway became less obvious. He aimed the vehicle down what he thought was the centerline of that taxiway. The snow soon piled up on the windshield wipers and visibility got worse.

The vehicle jolted and bumped abruptly as Al ran over one of the blue lights on the left side of the taxiway. It couldn't have been anything else. Al was way off to the left side of the concrete, not at all on the centerline, so he veered to the right. The vehicle did a complete spin right there in front of the control tower. Losing precious seconds, Al let the vehicle come to rest before proceeding. He jumped out briefly and wiped the snow off the windshield with his gloved hands, before again trying to drive across to the Alert area.

"What a mess," Ben proclaimed, at the obvious difficulty they had in getting to their airplane. Al managed to safely get them down the taxiway, across the end of the runway and into the Christmas Tree Alert area. He slammed on the brakes as the vehicle veered off to the right side of the shelter. It skidded the last 50 feet and came to rest front-on to the side of the building, denting the sheet metal slightly.

The crew bolted from the vehicle and ran to the front of the shelter, Fred falling down as his feet slipped out from under him just as he reached the entry stand. He landed with a painful jolt to his shoulder.

Ben paused, "You okay .. can you make it?"

Fred nodded, wincing, and stumbled up the stairs, finally easing himself gingerly down into his cockpit.

Several other crews were already in their planes as

S-14 climbed the stand and jumped down into their respective cockpits. Even though they had been all the way across the base when the klaxon sounded, they were not the last of the crews to get to their airplanes. Amazing.

The crew chief and his assistant struggled to move the huge entry stand away, pushing through accumulated snow blown into the front of the shelter. From the nose gear forward there was already six inches of the white stuff on the pavement. In a minute they got the electrical and air starter carts going, and Al sat ready for engine start.

Fred and Ben donned their flight helmets and strapped in, shoulder harnesses and lap belts. The radios crackled to life with the sound of static. No message had yet been received to authorize engine start or taxi out. Al noticed that most of the other planes in view were also ready, canopies closed and waiting, though he could not see beyond the doorway of his shelter to the side.

"Yup ... what else could it be," Fred commented over the interphone. "Look at that weather. It's gotta be the start of the ORI. Just like last year. What else?"

"Cut the chatter," Al interrupted. "We've still not gotten the radio message. Ben? Are you sure the radios are channeled properly?"

"Yes, colonel ... #1 is on the Command Post and #2 on the Tower. Double checked."

Several minutes passed ... and still no message. Fred peered out his side window toward the tower and transient parking area. He looked for any sign of a transport, the kind that might have brought in the ORI inspection team. Because of the blowing snow and the blockage of the side of the shelter, he couldn't be sure. From his more forward seat, Al too scanned over at the parking ramp below the tower. There was no strangers there, no visiting airplane which might have brought the ORI team.

"No strange transports that I can see," he declared to his crew. "If those guys got in here ahead of the storm, they might have parked by the maintenance hangars, out of my view from here." But in his bones Al just knew that those inspectors were out there somewhere and responsible for kicking off this exercise. They have an uncanny knack for picking bad weather days, he thought.

Suddenly, silently, the sky to the northwest lit up, like a thousand flashbulbs. It was as if the sun suddenly burst through the clouds and glared onto the white snow.

"What in the hell ...." Al exclaimed, his hand instinctively raised to shield his eyes. "Did you guys see that flash? What in the hell was that? I've never seen such a bright light. It only lasted a few seconds, but it almost blinded me."

"Yeah, Al ... I saw it too. Mighta been an electrical transformer blowing up ... short circuited by this snow. Ya think?"

"Maybe ... but it had to be close or a mighty big transformer. And besides ... that power station is over the other way, not where the light came from. Anything on those damn radios yet?"

"Kingpin 22 to all alert aircraft, this is Kearny. All alert aircraft ... Start your engines, now." Suddenly and unexpectedly came the message from Art Kearny in #045 across in front of Al.

"Hey, ... that's not right," Ben commented in a startled voice. "That's not how it's supposed to go. He didn't authenticate his message ... and besides it's supposed to come from Kingpin Control, the Command Post."

"It's good enough for me," Al responded. "Art must have information we don't, and what could it hurt just to start engines?" Al flicked on the nose wheel taxi light to get the crew chief's attention, and motioned with his left hand in a circular pattern that he wanted to start engines.

The crew chief saluted in acknowledgment and headed for the air cart to make sure it was putting out full flow.

In seconds all four jet engines roared to life, the exhaust gasses aft billowing up a huge cloud of blowing snow. That was as far as Al could go, without violating standard operating procedures and absent an authenticated message.

Soon all 12 B-58s were sitting there, engines in idle and waiting further instructions. Still no message over the radios, just the crackle of background static.

"What in the world? .... someone's running from the Alert facility toward Kearny's airplane. It's Osterman and he's carrying something ... it looks like a fishing pole," Al declared in a surprised voice. "I didn't know that old fart could even run."

"He's got a what?" Ben queried.

"A long pole ... and he's lifting one end of it up to Kearny's left side window. There's something, like a piece of paper attached to the end of the pole. Now Kearny is opening his canopy and reaching over the side for it. What in the hell is going on? Must be a message or something."

In a few seconds, crews heard yet another message from Kearny. "Okay, Kingpin crews .... I've just been handed a note from Osterman. It says the following : Radios out, Command Post telephoned. Blue Flame message in three parts."

"My god, Fred," shouted over the intercom, after copying down the message from Kearny. That's not the ORI. This is the real thing, Al."

"He's right ... I copied it too, Al. This is a launch message. We're at war. This ain't the ORI at all. This is the real McCoy." Ben echoed.

All eleven other crews copied Kearny's message, and probably remarked the same things to themselves.

Chapter Five - Off to War

"Al ... you take the lead and let's get these birds outa here," Kearny called over the #1 radio. That flash a few minutes ago was a nuclear burst ... probably over Chicago. Move it ... or the next one will be on top of us."

"Roger that, Art ... Kingpin 75 is taxiing out now for the active runway," Al responded over the radio, as he eased the throttles forward. But over the intercom he added, "If I can just find the damn taxiway. Taxi checklist, Ben."

Right behind Al moved the other airplanes, each cautiously groping through the billowing clouds of kicked up snow, trying to stay directly aft of 075. No chance in this mess to try an accelerated and left-right staggered mass takeoff. The minimum interval takeoff procedures couldn't be followed, especially with pilots unable to see the edges of the taxiway or runway ahead.

"Take off when you're ready 75," came Kearny's voice.

"We'll sort this out when we're safely airborne. Let's save these birds now."

"Roger, Art ... 75 taking the runway now," Al responded. "Take-off checklist, Ben."

Smoothly and even routinely, Al and Ben went through the several items required to get 075 airborne. "Rotate at 205 knots," Ben called out. "205, roger," Al echoed, as their four jets in full afterburner accelerated them down the runway. No such things as decision speeds or abort options here, 075 was either going to take off or crash trying. The guys coming up behind them would either follow along or run them over. This was not a training mission. This was it.

At 205 knots Al eased the nose up and the airplane roared into the snowy, stormy skies. On full instruments now, Al followed prescribed procedures and soon turned to the climb-out heading of 045 degrees.

"Gear up ... elevator available to auto," continued Ben in calling off the post-takeoff checklist items. Al responded with each completed item. They rapidly accelerated to Mach 0.91, climbing to initial cruise altitude. In trail formation right behind them were the other eleven B-58's. All were still in the weather and could not see a thing.

"Better put up your flash curtains, guys," Al warned. We don't want to be blinded by another nuclear flash, and besides I'm on instruments now and can't see a blasted thing outside."

No sooner had he gotten the words out than there was a blazingly brilliant flash, this time behind them. In another few seconds 075 buffeted in the wake of a blast pressure wave.

"My god," Fred gulped. That burst was right behind us, not 30 miles away .. and then his voice wavered. No, Oh no .. whatever it was just hit the base. Those bastards have taken out ....." Fred didn't finish his words. He didn't have to. The whole crew knew that the base they'd just left, their families and everything was gone. Vaporized.

"Kingpin aircraft ... this is Kearny. Check in guys. How many you are left?"

"Kingpin 75, we're okay," Al acknowledged. And soon six others responded. Four never did answer, the last four in the group scrambling to get airborne didn't make it.

Automatically and without much said over the interphone, Al's crew resumed their normal climb-out procedures. Only Ben and Al talked ... and then very minimally. "Let's switch to split feed now, Al ... " And Al reached down to the fuel control panel to change from aft tank feed, used just for afterburner flight, to feed the engines for normal cruise by taking fuel from both the forward and aft main fuselage tanks. As soon as they burned off enough fuel to make room for that carried in the centerline bomb pod tanks, they'd empty them.

"Kingpin aircraft .. this is Kearny," Let's continue up toward Lake Huron and we'll try to get a message from Beaver Control at Wurtsmith. We aren't getting any radio traffic. How about you, Al?"

"Not a word, Art ... except for you. But we can't go beyond our tankers, if we don't hear."

"Nope, there's just eight of us now. I sure wish I knew what was going on. The communications systems just fell apart. But sure as hell, this ain't the ORI, fellows."

"Al ..." Fred began. "We're going to pass within 50 miles of Wurtsmith, off to the left. If it hasn't been hit yet we might be close enough to call 'em. But if they do get hit, we could be too damn close to the blast, so hold on tight."

"Way ahead of you, Fred," Ben responded. "Al, I tried to raise Beaver Control on both radios ... and even the short wave HF radio, but no luck. I don't know if it's us or them, but I can't raise anybody."

Al thought a bit and decided that there was nothing else to do but continue toward the tanker rendezvous point. He was worried about their passing too close to Wurtsmith, if some ICBM was headed there. Wurtsmith, a B-52 base, was a likely target for Soviet missiles, just as their base had been.

Soon Al's crew heard Kearny calling, "Beaver Control this is Kingpin 45, do you copy, over?" He repeated the message several times and go no response.

"Guess they're not home, Art," Al added over his radio. "Want us to continue toward the tanker rendezvous?"

"Yes, Al ... and that goes for the rest of you. Kingpin aircraft acknowledge," he instructed. And one by one the others answered. Still there were but eight.

"Okay, Al ... we've burned enough of a hole in the aft tank to start pod transfer. Let me know when you begin and I'll time it ... just in case." Al acknowledged that he'd just switched the fuel valves to begin moving centerline pod fuel up and into the fuselage. Ben's timing was just a precaution, so he could keep track of where fuel was going, even if the gauges failed, which they often did.

Ben just started his stopwatch, when all of a sudden 075 was hit by a flash and a rapidly following air blast. That flash could be seen right through the skin of their aircraft. The airplane shuddered and suddenly rolled over 90 degrees to the right. Al fought to keep 075 under control, his airplane just short of flipping over on it's back when he managed to save it.

"You guys okay?" his voice clearly strained by the effort required to keep the bird under control.

"Yeah .. okay back here, Ben responded. "But my stuff is all over the place. Are we back on the road now?" Ben's cockpit was strewn with charts, flight manual, calculators, pencils, checklist and other stuff that tossed about in that wild unexpected maneuver. He didn't dare unstrap enough to reach down to the floor to retrieve his gear yet.

"Is it over?" Fred anxiously chimed in. "My stuff's gone every which way too, Al. I think that was Wurtsmith taking a direct hit. My radar showed an instantly growing echo over their way. Never seen a nuclear burst on radar before, but that had to be it."

"Shit .. I don't know guys. I'm just trying to keep us somewhere close to the departure leg heading and upright, if I can. Any serious damage back there?"

After a long pause, Fred responded. "Well, do you want the good news ... or the bad, Al? I've got both."

"So? ... what's the matter?" Al inquired, a tone of concern obvious in his voice.

"The good news is that my systems are okay, except for the radar and the gyro. Must be that sudden roll dumped the inertial platform and my radar picture is skewed off at 45 degrees to the right Can't see a thing on it.." Fred didn't mention that his shoulder, already wrenched by the earlier fall was worse now from the tug of his shoulder harness in that abrupt roll.

"That checks ... the primary gyro tumbled and I'm flying on just the backup. Can you do an inflight alignment and bring her up again?"

  "Yeah ... I'll give it a try, but that'll take 40 minutes. Here goes, so hold her as straight as you can. We'll have no mapping radar until I can get things aligned and level again. It's time to turn right to heading 060 degrees." Fred instructed. Al acknowledged the heading change and gently banked right.

"We're okay back here too, Al ... ten minutes to go on the fuel transfer ... and that checks with my gauges. Guess the fuel system is working. But the radios still ain't, I've been trying them repeatedly. No luck."

"Better check in with Kearny," Al reminded. "Kingpin 45, this is 75, do you copy?"

He tried several more times and got no response. Then, "Kingpin 75 this is 33. I think we lost a couple of guys in that Wurtsmith hit."

"Roger 33, Kingpin aircraft, this is 75. Check in guys," Al said to whomever might be left. Only four replied, but Al wasn't convinced that they were down to just five. He hoped that the others were merely having radio problems. Al had no way of knowing, for sure, but there were indeed only five left.

Soon Ben told Al to turn off the fuel transfer pumps. "The pods are empty now, Al. I'm going off interphone a few minutes to retrieve my stuff down on the floor. I'll check back in a "minute or two." Fred similarly told Al that he'd be doing the same thing, but what he really did was massage his aching shoulder, unable to raise his right arm over his head."

"Okay .. back on," Ben reported. "Boy .. that wild maneuver sent my stuff everywhere." Fred took a few minutes more, and then he came back on.

In another 30 minutes, Fred reported that the gyro was coming up. His radar image was nearly back to normal. "Ten minutes more, Al ... and we should have the primary gyro back up."

"Well, gang ... I took a chance and peeked outside. I figured that up here over Canada the bad guys wouldn't have any targets to blast. We're in the clear ... on top of a solid undercast. That'll help us find the tankers, I hope.

Maybe we can get the Go Code message from them."

"Okay, Al ... that's about the only good new so far. I predict that we'll be 1500 pounds below the fuel curve when we meet our tanker. See if you can talk 'em out of some extra gas," Ben suggested.

"Right, Ben .... say, Fred? Are you getting any tanker rendezvous beacon signals yet? I figure we're just half an hour away. Agreed?" Al hopefully queried.

"Nope ... too far out, I guess. I'll keep checking."

Ben took a chance too ... and peeked out his right side window, just to see if it really was clear out there.

The setting sun behind them made the clouds below look pink.

Things looked deceptively peaceful. They he saw something. "Hey, Al ... look over there at three o'clock. Is that a contrail out there ... parallel to us, maybe 50 miles away?"

"Looks like it ... and I'd guess he's going our way and not back toward the states. Must be one of us, or maybe even a tanker."

The crew was not supposed to break radio silence, according to the ground rules, but nothing else had gone as planned. Al decided to see if that bird over there was another SAC bomber or a tanker. He tried the primary refueling frequency and called, "Any tanker aircraft, this is Kingpin 75. Do you read, over"?

Silence ... no response at all. But then "Kingpin 75, this is Red Hat 22. Authenticate Alpha Sierra Tango."

"All right," Ben enthusiastically commented, while flipping through the pages of his code book. "That's Bravo Echo, Al. Respond with Bravo Echo." And Al did.

"Kingpin 75, Red Hat 22 here. No .. we're a Buff out of Westover. You guys heard anything? ... a Go Code or anything like that?"

"Negative, 22 ... we've been out of touch since takeoff. We're headed for our rendezvous point and were hoping you were our tanker, Acer 55."

"Well 75, we aren't. Sorry 'bout that. We're looking for a Flexer 28. This sure has been a mess communications-wise. Nothing works. If we don't get a Go Code from our tanker, we'll have to turn back, but if you guys get something, pass it along encoded. Okay?"

"Roger that 22 ... and the same goes if you hear first. We'll keep one radio on this frequency. 75 out."

Al noticed that his primary attitude reference, from the navigator's gyro was working okay now. He tentatively re-engaged the autopilot and was relieved to see it worked.

Now if we can just find our tanker, he muttered to himself. Or any tanker would do.

"Got a beacon yet, Fred?" Al again inquired.

"Well, I'm not sure, Al. There's something out there at eleven o'clock, perhaps 70 miles, but I can't tell if it's a tanker. The code pattern is smeared. It's coming at us on our reciprocal heading, so that might be him."

"Acer 55, this is Kingpin 75. Do you read?" Al called on the primary refueling frequency.

"Roger Kingpin 75, Acer 55 here. Air refueling control point (ARCP) in nine minutes. Are you alone?"

"Negative 55, there are others behind us. Are you alone?"

"Afraid so, 75 ... we're the only one left of six. How much gas do you need? Gotta share it now."

"All we can get, Al," Ben chimed in. "But ask him if he's got message traffic for us."

"22, this is 75. Have you got traffic for us? We've been unable to reach anyone since takeoff."

"Roger that, 75. Are you ready to copy?" And Al affirmed that they were ready. Soon the tanker began reading an encoded message.

"Got it, Al ..., "Ben reported. Fred echoed the same, and the two began decoding the crucial message.

"Thanks 22. 75 copies. How about broadcasting that on 352.6, Acer 22. There's a Buff out there that didn't get anything either." Acer 22 then complied.

"Looks authentic, Al .... I'm putting my copy of the message in the clothesline pouch for you to see." Ben folded his slip of paper and soon began pulling the bag forward for Al. All three men had to agree that it was a proper message, for this was indeed a valid GO Code. The President had told them to go to war.

Fred began counting off the radar range increments to Acer 22, as Al eased 075 into position for aerial refueling.

"We need 60 thousand minimum, 22," Al advised the KC-135 pilot ahead of him.

"Can't give you that much, sir. 50 is all you get, there are three others behind you."

"Shit," Ben cursed. "50 isn't going to cut it, Al. That'll put us 12,000 pounds short. We'll barely make it past our targets and out of bad guy's territory. We sure as hell won't make our planned recovery base."

"We'll see," Al calmly replied. Refueling checklist, Ben."

Acer 22 gave them 55,000 pounds ... more than they expected, but still not the 60,000 they needed. "Sorry, 75. But I can't give you any more." Acer 22 explained. "Do you guys need a navigational position?"

"Negative 22, Thanks anyway. We're fine. Good luck to you on your return home," Al encouraged.

"Same to you, 75 .... we wish you luck and may you guys come out the other side okay. Adios."

Al eased his now heavier airplane down and aft of the tanker, and then moved off to the left. "Fred, what's the heading from here to the entry point?"

"That's 070 degrees, Al. Guess we're actually going to do it, huh?"

"Yup ... that's what they pay us for. Now it's time to get even with those bastards."

Ben figured and re-figured his fuel projections. That extra 5000 pounds sure helped, but he still didn't feel that they had enough to make it to the post-strike recovery base in North Africa. Then he realized that he'd better check his gear once more. For this was going to be the real thing and his jammers and tail gun might actually be needed.

"Check all exterior lights OFF, Al. Flash curtains re-installed and our IFF beacon OFF too." Ben began to read the pre-penetration items that would make 075 harder for the enemy to detect. No sense giving them any help. "And I'm going to fire a test burst on the tail gun now, Al."

Soon the brief burst of the 20mm cannon in the tail caused a slight shudder felt throughout the aircraft. "Seems to be working," Ben acknowledged, though he knew damn well it was unlikely that an enemy fighter would come up as close as the 1200 yard lethal range of that pea shooter back there. "I still say I'd rather have 2000 pounds of extra fuel and not that pile of trash in the tail," Ben lamented. The gun radar might be of some help, but there's no way a fighter will come in close and directly aft of us."

"Well, Ben ... maybe you can shoot down his missile," Al offered, knowing that Ben was probably right.

"I've got more confidence in my jammers and these flare and chaff units. They'll give us more protection," Ben retorted.

Fred advised that they were one hour and twenty away from descent to low level. Then they would let down to 500 feet above the water to evade enemy search radars. They'd come into Soviet airspace just west of the Russian-Finnish border, from over the water. Then they'd follow a circuitous route to five planned targets. Two were airfields and the others nuclear storage facilities. Our ICBM's had hopefully neutralized enemy ICBM launch sites and air defense bases. But then little had gone right so far.

"You guys better take this lull in the action to grab a bite of your flight lunches," Al suggested. "We'll be too busy to eat after we let down."

"Speak for yourself, Al," Ben chided. "I can always eat."

That hour turned out to be the longest and most difficult so far. Each man sat there, alone is his own separate compartment with his own thoughts and worries. Fred was in tears as he reflected about what he had just lost, his wife, kids and his whole world. It was much the same for Al and Ben, though they weren't as visibly emotional. They felt so empty, alone and lost. What was there to live for?

What in the hell were they doing up here at 30,000 feet above the cold, icy North Atlantic? For what purpose?

In their minds, of course, they knew quite well what was going on and where they were headed. But in their hearts it was something else. Meaning was gone, and any reason for continuing, except for one thing, felt most heavily by Al and Ben ... vengeance.

Vengeance thoughts kept them going, the need to blast to hell those bastards who started this whole mess. They wanted earnestly to hit their targets and hit 'em hard. But the assigned targets weren't at the core of their anger.

Missile storage sites and airfield targets weren't where the Soviet decision makers sat. No. Those bastards were in some underground bunker beneath Moscow. So simply hitting assigned targets wouldn't be nearly as satisfying or hurt as much.

Yet, logic and training kept these three on the straight and narrow course. Hitting their assigned targets was but a small part of a master plan, a plan to neutralize Soviet war making capabilities. Targets weren't chosen to satisfy their own vengeful desires. There was more logic to it than that.

But what started this exchange of death and destruction? There had been no recent intelligence reports indicating war was imminent. Crews were never briefed to expect a heightened state of alert or the need to generate more loaded airplanes ready for launch. How had this happened so suddenly? .. so unexpectedly. Why .. oh, why couldn't this have just been that damn ORI.

Chapter Five - Cold War Turned Hot

The pod fuel gauges showed empty now, so Ben advised Al that it was time to jettison the centerline lower pod shell. Reducing drag just might save a few gallons of fuel, he hoped.

When the empty tank shell fell away, the crew hardly noticed. It didn't weigh much and the CG barely shifted. But now 075 was a little cleaner aerodynamically.

Soon Fred announced that it was time to start a long, slow descent to low level. Ben and Al went through the checklist to configure the bird for low level high speed flight at 500 feet or less. Ben knew that the longer they flew down on the deck, the more fuel they'd burn. Those four jet engines just gulped fuel in the dense air down there.

As screwed up as things had been with communications already, Al wondered how much else could go wrong. A major worry was fratricide, the chance of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, perhaps over a target being hit by our own ICBM's or another bomber. Supposedly there was a scheme of strike timing to preclude that likelihood, but things might be totally awry. They had been so far.

Cross-targeting, whereby two or more bombs or missiles were destined to hit the same target could be a problem. For bombers there was supposedly a little discretion possible, for if a crew could tell if their assigned target had already been taken out, they could save their weapons for alternate targets. Missiles, of course, had no such options.

Equipment aboard B-58's in this year of 1964 was not very sophisticated. Low level navigation and terrain avoidance was not easy and depended solely upon radar imagery and basic skills. With the flash curtains closed to preclude pilot blindness from nuclear bursts, theirs or ours, it was impossible to look out the window to see hills and obstacles. So if the radar failed, the crew would be unable to continue flying down low, and that could expose them to search and tracking radars which would vector interceptors or surface-to-air missiles(SAM). But then no one ever said this would be easy.

Ben monitored his radar warning receivers, noting that several early warning and search radars were sweeping the skies around them. So far he had no indication that 075 was of interest to a tracking radar, ground or airborne. Search radars, in and of themselves, were no real threat. No one had even been shot down by a search radar system. Tracking radars were something else, however. Fighter interceptors and SAM sites and AAA batteries employed tracking radars and they could mean real trouble.

Al leveled off at 500 feet on the radar altimeter. They were now 500 feet above the water and fast approaching the enemy coastline. Fred detected a headland ahead, a coastal checkpoint on his charts which told him they were a little too far to the right. "Give me three degrees left, Al. New heading 118." Al acknowledged.

Ben took this last opportunity before getting into the coverage zones of SAM sites, to double check 075's fuel status, the CG and readiness for the first bomb drop. The main centerline weapon, weighing some 7500 pounds would be the first to go, resulting in an aft CG shift of five percent, a huge movement. Fuel had to be positioned forward now in anticipation of that drop to allow for the sudden CG shift and keep everything within safe parameters.

"Let's start moving fuel from the aft and balance tanks forward, Al. I figure we need to move 4500 pounds. Let me know when you start the pumps and I'll time it." Al acknowledged and responded, "Now. Transferring now." Ben punched his clock.

"How's the radar working, Fred? Are we going to clear that range of hills just in from the coastline?"

"Doing okay, Al, "Fred responded. "We're ten miles left of those hills and paralleling. The line-up point for our first target is just beyond the end of those hills. I'll give you a new heading then, in about seven minutes."

"Stop fuel transfer now, Al" Ben reminded. Al reached down and turned the pumps off, closing the transfer valves too.

Just as 075 slipped past the end of the hills, Ben's radar warning receiver lights suddenly blazed and a steady buzz rang in Ben's headset. "Lock on, Al ... we're being tracked by a SAM site. No ... it's an anti-aircraft battery. Boy, they sound similar. Dropping chaff now. That damn jammer isn't breaking lock. Gimme a quick left turn for 15 seconds and then come back right. Turn now!."

Al slammed the stick to the left, taking care not to lower the nose, for at 500 feet and whizzing over the ground at 575 knots there was little margin for error. "Damn those flash screens," he blurted. "I can't see a thing." Flying blind down in the weeds was no fun.

"That did it. Resume course. The lock is broken," Ben shouted, adrenaline now flowing fiercely.

"Just in time," Fred declared. "Crosshairs are on the target. Follow the steering needle, Al. Center it now."

"Gotcha ... you want autopilot control now?"

"Negative .. fly it manually. 30 seconds to release," Fred warned. Ben instinctively started his stopwatch too, ready to call down the last seconds to release, if the system suddenly failed.

"After release, ... we break left to heading 060 degrees, and stay down here at 500 feet AGL (above ground level, as indicated on the radar altimeter). "Got it," Al replied.

Suddenly and surely the massive 7500 pound weight dropped away. The airplane almost immediately popped up to 2500 feet above the ground and the CG shifted aft. Al banked hard to the left and eased 075 back down to the 500 foot level. He sure as hell didn't like making these wild maneuvers strictly on instruments.

The flash and blast wave of their own weapon felt just like that experienced back near Wurtsmith. It was all Al could do to keep the airplane under control. He popped up a few hundred feet more to give him some maneuvering room, knowing that it was unlikely an enemy fighter or missile would get them now in the wake of that blast. Yet his didn't want to be so abrupt as to again dump the primary gyro platform. It was the main horizon reference for Fred's radar ... their only eyes onto the world outside.

"Heading 060 degrees, Al, " Fred reminded, an urgent tone to his voice.

"I'm trying, damn it ... I'm trying," Al responded, as he struggled to keep 075 under control and not wipe out the gyro abruptly or crash into the ground just below. Soon the plane leveled off and assumed a heading of 060.

Ben checked the fuel gauges, trying verify that their CG was under control. "Shit," he muttered. "Aft tank gauge is out, reads zero, Al, my last reading was 15 minutes ago, so I'd say we have 22,000 pounds there. Make sure we're on split feed, from both the forward and aft tanks. I'll use the drop in the forward tank as a reference for the aft."

"You got it," Al responded. "How long to the next target, Fred?"

"About 25 minutes. It'll be a storage complex and gets the right aft small weapon. Expect a heading change to 180 degrees in ten minutes or so. We're pretty close to course now."

"This flying with the curtains up is for the birds. Your radar is all we've got, Fred. How's it doing?"

"Radar's fine, Al ... but I keep getting a radar altimeter error signal. Hold her level for a few seconds and I'm going to measure altitude with the mapping radar to see

how close it compares to the radar altimeter. Just hold her steady for three minutes, okay?"

"Oh great," Al moaned. "All we need is no indication of how high above the ground we are. Are you sure we're high enough over the terrain?"

""No sweat ... terrain's flat here. Just hold her steady and I'll tilt my mapping radar antenna down and check the altitude hole."

It was Al all could do to restrain himself from ripping off the flash curtains. Depending on strictly instruments, down here in the weeds for hours at 500 feet and doing over 550 knots was nerve-wracking, as well as fatiguing. Sweat poured down his brow.

"Okay, Al ... radar altitude from my mapping radar matches the radar altimeter within 50 feet. I guess the error signal is wrong. Ten minutes to our next turn."

"Shit, I can't see anything there," Fred exclaimed.

"What do ya mean, ya don't see anything?" Al snapped back, thinking that Fred's radar picture was gone.

"I've got a picture all right, Al. No sweat about that, but there's nothing out there in the target area. There's supposed to be buildings and bunkers in the target area, but nothing shows on the radar. It's gone."

"Well, maybe it's already been hit, Fred," Ben suggested. "Wouldn't that explain it?"

"I suppose so ... but I don't see a damn thing where the target is supposed to be," Fred complained.

"That does it," Al decided, ripping back the flash curtain in front of him. "We'll just overfly the target and

see what's there. If it's gone, we'll head for #3. If it's there, then we'll drop. I'll take a look-see."

"What did ya do, Al?" Ben asked. "Did you take down your flash curtain?"

"Yes .. yes, damn it I did."

"Well put it back up, for god's sake. If you're blinded by a flash we're all dead ducks," Ben shouted in great concern.

"I'll put it back up after we pass this target, but there's no sense dropping the weapon if the target's already gone. Is there?"

Ben had to agree, in some measure, with Al's logic. But it sure didn't make him feel good about possibly having their pilot blinded and unable to fly. "Okay .. after this target, put 'em back in place. Please, Al. For god's sake, please."

"Okay .. okay. Give me a heading to the target, Fred."

"Hold what you've got. It'll take you right over the storage complex, Al. You're 12 miles out and headed right for it."

"Nobody home down there, according to my radar warning receiver," Ben offered. "Nobody searching or tracking in this area."

"You're right, Fred .... there isn't a thing down there. Whatever was there is gone now. Must been an air burst that took 'em out though ... for there's no crater either. I do see empty roadways ... and what might have been a small reservoir or sewage area. It's bone dry and empty.

But it's dark. I only saw things in the moonlight."

"Okay ... turn to 220 degrees and we'll head for #3. It too is an above ground building complex."

"Right ... turning now to 220," Al responded. "We'll save that weapon for an alternate target."

"Yeah .. and put your flash curtains back up, Al," Ben reminded.

"Boy .. you're a nag, Ben," Al replied. "All right, mother, the curtain is back in place. Feel better?"

"As a matter of fact yes ... a whole lot better, at least about that, but we won't have fuel enough to make it

to an alternate target. After #5 we'll have to head for the exit point ... or we won't have a chance of getting out of here and started for home. We're hurting for fuel," Ben answered.

The crew headed south southwest toward their third target. Still there was no signal on Ben's warning receiver that anybody had radars active. Was it the receiver out? Or were the Soviet radars out of action? He couldn't tell, though the normal background noise continued in Ben's earphones.

"Hey Ben? ..." Al queried. "How many thousand pounds of fuel have you rat-holed and not figured into the reserves? You DSO's are known for keeping back a few thousand pounds you don't mention, personal reserves, you know?"

"Don't I wish," Ben muttered. "Not this time, Al. We haven't got an ounce to spare. But I tell you what. If we back off to 480 knots it'll save us ...oh, maybe 1500 pounds when we get to the exit point. That would make it barely possible for us to land this bird at the nearest recovery base. We left the tanker short, you remember. Ya wanna do that?"

"Okay with you, Fred ... will slowing down to 480 screw it up navigation-wise?" Al implored.

"No problem with navigation if we slow down ... it'll actually help. But what about our timing over targets and fratricide worries? We could be at a target at the wrong time, you know. That's my worry."

"Okay then ... let's pull her back to 480. Timing is probably as screwed up as everything else. How about that alternate now, Ben .. can we make it?"

"No ... no way. Slowing down will just barely make it possible to get to our recovery base. There's nothing left for going to alternates. I suggest that we just jettison that damn weapon after we pass our final planned target. No point in burning gas to drag that weight around. Lighter is better, you know."

"I'll think about it, and let you know later," Al responded. He knew that you don't just jettison nuclear bombs willy-nilly, even unarmed.

Forty-five minutes later, Fred advised, "Arming the left aft weapon, Al. We're gonna drop it on this next target, the first airfield. It's parachute retarded and will give us time enough to get away from the blast. We overfly straight ahead. Hold this heading. Six minutes to go."

Fred's shoulder was killing him. He reached for the arming switch and tried to flip it, extra strength needed to break the safety wire. He didn't have the strength, so he wriggled around to reach it with his left hand. Time slipped away and the release point fast approached. He grabbed for

a screwdriver from his kit bag and jammed the blade under the switch. With just seconds to go, the arming switch cover popped up.

"Bomb away ... continuing straight ahead on 210 degrees," Al confirmed.

The blast from the smaller weapon didn't rock 075 like the last one did. And the straight ahead path slowed down the shock wave's overtake differential speed. When it hit, several seconds later, it was just like riding on a rough country road. Al maintained control handily.

Ben didn't have time to observe it, but the effects of that last drop knocked out his tail gun radar. He couldn't see or track anything aft of them now, even if there was anybody. So far he'd not seen anything on his scope.

"Oh oh," Ben muttered.

"Oh oh, what?," Al responded. "Never just say "Oh oh" without follow-up explanation. For god's sake, that could mean anything, from you dropped your pencil to we're on fire."

"Sorry 'bout that ... but my tail gun radar just went blank. Musta been from the blast effect on that drop. Well, we now for sure have 2500 pounds of useless weight back there. Wish it was fuel."

"New heading of 195 degrees, Al. Third target in 35 minutes. Another airfield," Fred instructed.

"Roger, turning to 195 degrees. Do we stay low here too?"

"Yup .. 500 feet AGL until after target #5. But maybe you'd like to know my radar's doing fine. As long as I can see over the hills in front of us, there's no danger of flying into the ground. This terrain gradually rises for the next 60 miles."

"Yeah, I know. I peeked. No hills around here to speak of. Curtains back up though, Ben."

Ben's radar warning receiver once again showed activity. "Something's trying to lock onto us .. off at two o'clock. Can't tell exactly what it is, but likely a SAM site. Standby .."

"Well?" Al urged. "What's it doing?"

"It's definitely a SAM site, but so far the jammer seems to be preventing lock-on. Just keep going. If it does lock on, we'll have a few seconds to do something before the

tone signal switches to high. High tone means he's about to launch."

For five anxious minutes they pressed on , straight ahead. Finally, "He's gone. Never did get a solid lock on us. The jammer must have done its job."

"The target is just over this ridge, straight ahead. I won't get a good look at it until we pass the crest, Al."

"Okay. Is the next weapon armed?"

"Yup, armed and ready. We'll use the right aft on this time, the one we woulda used earlier. Then we'll just have two."

"Roger that. How we doin'?

"You'll notice the radar altimeter jump up as we pass the crest. Ease her down then, keeping us 500 AGL, if you can," Fred urged. "Ground speed is 480 and winds are light.

Three minutes to release."

Suddenly, Al's radar altimeter gauge indicated rapid increase in altitude, or rather a dropping away of the terrain below them. "Passed the crest. See anything?"

"Lookin' good. Hold her steady."

"Steady, my ass," Ben interrupted. "We're being tracked by something dead ahead. My jammer's not breaking the lock. Dropping chaff and a couple flares. Shit."

Ben knew that an evasive maneuver wasn't possible here, with Fred just seconds from a release. It was now a race between whatever was trying to shoot them down ... and the next bomb. A nuclear burst is one hell of a countermeasure against a SAM site ... if there's time.

"Oh damn ... they've just switched to high pitch. They're seconds from firing at us." Ben dropped more chaff and it didn't help.

"Bomb away, Al. Maintain this course."

"Like hell, Al ... break right, Do it now."

Al jerked the control stick hard right, once again

taking care not to lose altitude. Ben dropped two more chaff packets just as the turn started.

"Now back left to course," Ben demanded. We broke his lock on that maneuver. Well done, Al."

The blast wave caught them at about that instant, and Al had some difficulty making the turn while being buffeted.

He let 075 climb about 1500 feet as he held her as steady as possible and eased to the course heading.

"Pretty effective jammer you got there ... that bomb, I mean," Fred chimed in. There's no more SAM sire there to worry about. Now come right to 245 degrees. We have to stay this side of some ridge lines and down to the next target."

"Okay .. 245 it is. I see the ridge line. We're flying down a river valley. Yes, Ben. I peeked again."

"We're right on course, Al. Last target in 25 minutes, another airfield."

Ben re-figured, for the fifth time since that last SAM episode, their fuel state. "Staying at 480 has helped, but not the 1500 pounds I'd hoped for. We musta used extra fuel in those wild turns."

"Do tell," Al retorted. "Kinda felt like a priority, don't you think?"

"Yeah, but we're going to have to make our landing at the recovery base on the first pass ... and straight in. You won't have gas enough for one trip around the pattern. That's how close it'll be."

"We'll talk about that after the last target. But I agree that we won't go for an alternate. Fred? Can you drop the left forward weapon armed and the right forward one safe on this last target? "

"Yeah, sure .. but why?"

"Well, I'd rather fry that last weapon in the blast than simply jettison it someplace in the middle of nowhere, or over water for that matter. If it dropped in the wrong place, unarmed, somebody might find it and either mess with it or try to use it."

"Sure .. okay. I'll let the bombing system automatically drop the armed one and then toggle a manual release on the second right afterwards. No problem. It'll be close enough to the blast to vaporize it."

"Okay, then let's do it that way. How long from last target to the start climb point?"

"Another 20 minutes or so ... no, make that 28 minutes at this slower speed."

"There's something else we have to consider about our landing, Al ... a CG problem. But we'll go into that after the target," Ben added. "We'll be climbing to 36,000 feet and optimum altitude for subsonic cruise at our light weight."

"Okay .. but first this last target. How we doin' Fred?"

"Not good. My radar's fizzling on me."

"What? .. no radar?" Al snapped while simultaneously

jerking off the flash curtain. And it's a damn good thing he did, for a bluff looming ahead in the moonlight meant trouble. "I'm flying visual from here on, guys. Blast or no blast." He veered right, just missing those rocks, and then eased back to Fred's last heading. "Boy, that was close."

"Sorry 'bout that, Al .... been working like crazy to keep my picture, but it kept getting weaker and weaker. Ten minutes to target. Come right five degrees to 250."

"Five degrees a few seconds ago woulda worked. No sweat. We're gonna make it. Right, Ben?"

"If you say so, Al .... just hope we don't have to punch out short of the recovery base. We'll be on fumes."

"Last weapon armed and ready. Three minutes to release, one armed and one safe. Hold her steady and as close to 500 AGL as you can."

Just as the weapon dropped away, Fred reached for the

jettison switch for the safe weapon. His shoulder pain wouldn't let him reach it, so he reached down with his good hand, unlocked his lap belt and turned to reach that switch with the other hand. In so doing, the loose end of the lap belt jammed into the ejection handle grip, the one that would blow off the canopy, but not the trigger to eject him.

"What heading now, Fred?"

Fred didn't answer. His face was white with fear. He realized that he was a fraction of an inch away from blowing his overhead canopy. He didn't move a muscle for what seemed like several minutes, though it was barely five seconds.

"Fred? Next heading?" Al repeated.

"Something's wrong, Al ... my chart says turn to 190 degrees after the last target. I'll see if I can find out what's wrong with Fred."

Chapter Six - Get Outa Here

After the blast of that last weapon passed, Al eased over to 190 degrees ... and deciding that there probably weren't any enemy fighters left to threaten them, opted to start the climb to cruise altitude early. That would save precious fuel.

"Going off interphone to check on Fred, Al. Check in with you in a minute or so."

Ben inserted the safety pins into his seat arm grips, so that neither the seat nor the canopy could blow. He wriggled out of his parachute harness and started to crawl down below and forward of his front console. There was a small space, where the clothesline passed, that he could get to. It was barely enough for a small man to get to the navigator's station.

It was tight ... a passage no larger than 14" by 20".

He stuck his head forward through the hole and saw Fred. And then he saw the problem. "Don't move, Fred," he shouted.

Fred turned his head and saw Ben looking at him. Fred's face was white as a sheet, though beads of sweat covered his brow. Ben smiled .. hoping to reassure his colleague that this wasn't a disaster .. yet.

"Where are you seat pins?" Ben shouted. Fred pointed to a right side console pocket. Ben nodded. "Okay, I'll try to put the right pin in and hand you the left one. Then, after I get my pin in ... you reach across and put the other

one in. Okay? Fred nodded that he understood.

Gingerly, Ben stretched forward until he could reach the set of pins, both connected by red streamers. He put one pin into the right hand grip. Now the seat couldn't go. Next

he handed the other pin to Fred. Without moving his body, Fred took the pin and reached across to insert it into the left hand grip.

"Okay ... now you're okay, Fred. What happened??"

"Shoulder bad .. had to unstrap to reach jettison button. Lapbelt caught," Fred muttered, his voice trembling.

Well, it's okay now. You tell Al that it's okay and I'm gonna wriggle back to my seat. Seeya."

Easier said than done, for Ben's flight suit leg pocket zipper caught on something and he couldn't move, backward or forward. "Oh shit," he shouted. "Now what do I do?"

Fatigue began to take its toll on the crew. They were going on adrenaline, for it had been an 18 hour day so far, and there was more to go. Al was especially beat, fighting to stay on course and not crashing into the ground just below. Fred's fatigue amplified the anguish of his sore and badly bruised shoulder. And Ben was just plain tired.

Fred couldn't tell that there was anything wrong, but Ben didn't move away as expected. Ben was so tightly limited in movement by the narrow passage that he couldn't see what he was caught on. In frustration, Ben kicked hard at whatever it was that held his suit. It suddenly he came free, but not before bending a tubing line or a cable on his own ejection seat, rendering it inoperative .. or at least some part of it. Ben couldn't tell. Ben had no idea what went wrong, but at least he was free.

After several minutes, Ben finally got back into his seat, strapped back into his parachute and prepared to remove the safety pins from his ejection seat. The pin on the right side wouldn't move. It was jammed. Whatever it was that Ben kicked down there, bent the trigger lever mechanism, making it impossible to remove that pin. And without pulling that pin, Ben could not eject.

"Back on interphone, Al," Ben reported. "But I got a little problem back here ... did Fred check in?"

"Yeah ... he's okay. What's your problem?"

Ben explained what happened. The two men discussed

options and what that complication meant. For one thing, it clearly meant that Ben's chances of bailing out, should it ever come to that, were slim to none. If the other guys had to leave ... Ben would quickly become aircraft commander. Though he could still jettison his canopy, if needed. He could not eject, and bailout manually would certainly invite injury.

"Leveling off at 36,000. How long to recovery base, Fred?"

"Probably two and a half hours to the primary recovery base in Libya ... or just an hour to a backup in Turkey. Any preferences?"

The main recovery base should have jet fuel, oil and even spare tires. Though refueling would be over the wing and not from the lower center-point receptacle, a tanker truck with power fuel pump should be there. However at the base in Turkey, a remote 10,000 foot strip near Susurluk, they knew not what to expect, except terra firma.

"So what's the CG problem you mentioned, Ben. Don't you think we've got enough problems now?"

"Well first, I vote for the Turkish airfield. It's touch and go whether or not we've got enough gas to go an hour and a half. The second problem is the CG. You know that an empty B-58, without a bomb or fuel pod suspended below,

is likely to tip onto its tail. And we'll be just about empty."

"Okay, Fred ... give me a heading to the Turkish base. And Ben, what can we do about the aft CG problem? There's no fuel to move forward, what little we have is already in the forward tank and the reserve." Al agreed with Ben that Libya was out of the question.

"Well, I've still got 2000 pounds of 20mm ammo back I the tail gun. That only exacerbates the aft CG problem. I will jettison that ammo just before we let down to land. It's probably a good idea to keep it back there now, to keep us in the best trim for fuel economy," Ben explained.

"Okay ... that makes sense, but you said your tail gun system was down. How can you jettison the ammo?"

"What I said was, my radar is dead. I can still activate the gun and ammo drive system ... or at least I think I can. I can fire the 4000 rounds or dump it, but have no control of where it goes."

"All right then ... just jettison the stuff somewhere in the boonies before we land. Fred? What about open areas?

Are there any unpopulated boondocks near the airfield?"

"Yeah sure ... looks like it's all boondocks on my charts. There may be some small mountain villages, but they don't show on the charts. What about getting rid of the ammo over the high mountains? Probably no villages up there."

"Okay, Fred ... you tell me, during our letdown when it's best to dump the ammo. All I need is three or four minutes."

"Be aware, Al ... that the broad whose voice comes over the emergency warning system will probably go ape when we get down to minimum fuel. She'll start squawking when the reserve tank starts to feel ... after the forward tank is empty."

"Gotcha ... that's all we need."

The sun slowly rose in the eastern sky. Al saw that there were no clouds below ... or above for that matter. Making a landing at the strange airfield would be a little easier in the clear. There were mountains all around.

"Heading 240 degrees, Al ... about 45 minutes out, but with my radar dead, I can't tell anything about if it's there. We're counting strictly on my navigation computers."

"Yeah ... and some luck too," Ben added.

The weary crew got ready for the descent into the landing area. Al decided to stay high, almost in a glide so he could see what the airfield looked like before committing to an approach. Engines in almost idle wouldn't drink much.

"It should be off to two o'clock now Al .. see anything yet?" Fred asked.

"Hard to tell ... there's a range of mountains to the right .. northwest of us. And I see a stream glistening in the sunrise off to the left."

"That's good. According to my charts the airfield is in between those features ... with a small town closer to the river."

"Got it ... I think. Yeah ... the runway is oriented north-south. Looks like it's okay. Checklist, Ben."

Before Ben started reading the Before Landing Checklist, Fred interrupted, "Looks good, Al ... my charts show a north-south runway ... and a small town to the east."

Al continued the let-down, passing 10,000 feet and headed for the airfield. "What is it's elevation, Fred?"

"4500 feet above sea level, but I have no idea what the altimeter setting is."

"At 4500 feet, Al," Ben reminded, "we'll roll out a long way. Even though it's the cool of the morning, the density altitude is probably 4500 feet too."

"Yup .. so I'll try to touch down at the approach

end of the runway ... but I don't know which way the wind is blowing. I don't see a wind sock. Oh wait ... I see smoke coming from houses off to the east. And the smoke is laying flat to the ground ... gotta be 15 knots or better. It's going to be a direct crosswind. That won't help. I'd like to save our drag chute, but may have to use it. We'll see."

"Looks clear to jettison the ammo, Fred ... we're over a remote area now," Al reminded.

Ben flicked the safety switch, readied the gun system and pushed the red jettison button. The ammo counter dial quickly zeroed. 4000 rounds of ammunition rained down on the hills below. Without the electrical firing pulses, it would land harmlessly in the high country, away from the village.

"Ammo's gone Al ... but we still gotta watch that tail drop after we roll out. Only what's left in the reserve tank will keep it up."

Even though Al was physically drained, he reached down into his reserves, of determination helped by anxiety. He made a fighter-type 360 degree overhead pattern, saving precious altitude before committing to the touchdown. He held off lowering the gear until the last seconds.

"Check gear down, Al," Ben reminded.

"Yep .. three green. Boy this runway is narrow. This crosswind isn't helping ... but in crabbing I am able to see

better. We'll scuff the tires a bit."

Al flared 075 just short of the runway ... managing to touch down in the first 500 feet of that 10,000 foot concrete strip. He decided not to use the chute, instead opting to hold the nose up and count on aerodynamic drag as much as possible. Then he pushed the stick forward and put the nose gear down, before jumping on the brakes.

Thump .. thump .. thump rattled the airplane as it crossed the seams in the old concrete runway. It was all Al could do to keep the plane on the narrow runway in that crosswind. He managed to bring 075 to a stop with barely 200 feet of concrete remaining.

Chapter Seven - Turkish Delight

"Good job, Al ... no, great job," Ben shouted. "And we have just 2000 pounds of fuel remaining .. or 15 minutes of flying time. That's cutting it close ... but you did great, just great."

Collectively the crew sighed in relief. They were safely down.. someplace in central Turkey. But that didn't matter. They'd made it.

At the very end of the runway was a rectangular pad of concrete ... no obvious taxiway, but a place to turn around.

Al ease the plane onto the pad and reversed course. At mid-field, to the eastern side of that strip, he saw a taxiway to a small collection of Quonset huts.

Back down the runway they taxied, slowly with the thump, thump of those seams rattling the airplane. Al saw another, smaller concrete pad in front of the huts. It was tight, he thought ... but he just might be able to turn the bird around before parking it.

"So, what are we going to do, Al", Fred inquired. "Are we going to shut down all four .. or keep one going while we refuel?"

"I'm going to shut her down .. all four. We've got two of those black powder starter cartridges. That ought to get us started again after we refuel. Ben, what do you say?"

It probably doesn't matter. The engines will quit before we can gas her up ... even with just one running. We are, gentlemen .. out of gas."

"Yeah ... and in more ways than one. I'm beat," Fred commented, with fatigue obvious in his voice. His shoulder hurt too, really bad.

The After Landing and Shutdown checklists completed, 075 sat there in the morning sunshine, still and quiet for the first time in nearly 24 hours. The winds howled, shaking the airplane with occasional gusts, and outside air temperatures were below freezing.

For several minutes the crew just sat there, tired and totally drained, not saying a word after the shutdown was complete. Each man's private thoughts varied greatly. Al finally had time to grieve over the loss suffered so many hours and miles ago. His darling wife and daughter, gone in an instant. At least they didn't suffer, he thought. But what a horrible waste. That beautiful child's life snuffed in an instant ... and why? ... for what??

Fred and Ben too contemplated their losses. So senseless, so unnecessary .. their families gone. Both men wondered if it was in some measure their fault, keeping their loved ones on an air base that was an obvious Soviet target. Should they have moved their families elsewhere, perhaps back with their relatives in more distant places?

Were they wrong themselves in pursuing military careers and endangering their wives and children? The two flyers knew and accepted the risks for themselves, but should they have placed loved ones in such jeopardy?

"Hey, guys?" Ben began. "You wanted to know what's in the box I brought along, didn't you? Well, it's something we'll need right here and now. I have a collapsing fire escape ladder."

"A ladder?" Al responded. "How's come?"

"Don't know about your guys, but I'm not going to jump down 14 feet to the ground. And I sure as hell don't see any ground crew guys bringing up entry stands. That's why?"

"Good thinking, Ben," Fred agreed. "So how does it work?"

"After we open our canopies,. I'll hang the ladder over the side, let it unroll and then use it to get down. Then I'll toss a line up to each of you, in turn, and you can hook the ladder to your side rails and come down. Sure beats the alternative. Wouldn't you say?"

"Well you clever rascal," Al added. When did you get that idea?"

"Last year when we landed out after the ORI .. and had to wait 35 minutes for ground crews in Texas to bring us ladders. That's when I decided to be ready. I'm prepared this time, and I'm not even a boy scout," Ben laughed.

  "But wait up, you guys, before opening your canopies .. we have to preserve the nitrogen in the canopy system. Let's not use the gas-powered canopy opening system now. When that gas is gone, we'll be in deep serious. Open you canopies manually and prop the hatches open with the safety struts. That way we won't deplete nitrogen supply. We ought to use it for ground opening only. Agreed?"

"Good thinking ... and just in the nick of time, 'cause I had my hand on the control valve just as you spoke," Al said.

  "There's no need to close the canopies after we get down either, unless it starts to snow or rain heavily. I'll go down first and then toss the line to you, Al. I'll see what I can find in the way of wheel chocks too. Don't want to have to use Fred."

Ben opened the ladder carton, hooked the portion normally used on window ledges to his canopy side rail, and unfurled it. Fifteen feet of roll-up ladder soon hung over the side, ready for use. Gingerly and tentatively, Ben climbed down and soon stood on Turkish soil. It took some wiggling, but he managed to get the ladder off the rail and let it fall to the ground.

Then, with a length of clothesline, brought for just this purpose, Ben tied one end to the upper part of the ladder. At the opposite end of the cord he attached a rubber ball, tennis ball size with a hole drilled through. The ball would carry the line up to the next crewman, who would then simply hoist the ladder and descend as Ben had.

"Not elegant ... but it sure works," Fred commented, after watching Ben and Al use the ladder.

Even more gingerly than Ben's first try, Fred began his descent. His shoulder hurt like hell and he was afraid of losing his grip on the ladder. Falling to the ground was not his preferred method of getting down.

All three stood beside their empty craft ... empty of fuel, empty of weapons and even of that tail gun ammo. They began a slow walk-around to see what, if any, damage 075 might have received. Al was most concerned about the scuffing those tires took on the crosswind landing ... and that rough runway surface.

Ben walked aft to see if there were signs of radome damage to his tail gun system. And sure enough, the radome was not only scorched by the several thermal blasts, most of it was gone entirely. "Well, that explains why the radar failed," he muttered. "Hey, Al ... come look at this."

Soon Al worked his way around the airplane and stood beside Ben, looking up at the cavity where the radome and antenna dish used to be. Al explained that the radome loss wasn't as much of a problem as the badly scuffed tires.

"Those tires were brand new before we left. Now they look like hell, especially on the left trucks. The forward pair isn't as bad as the aft ones. I can see fabric in places. Don't know how many takeoffs or landings they're good for. Maybe just one," Al lamented.

"Let's get out of this cold wind, you guys. I'm heading over to those Quonset huts," Fred shouted, rubbing his gloved hands to generate heat. Soon Al and Ben turned to follow.

As they ambled toward the three side-by-side Quonset huts, Al commented, "Don't you think it's strange that there's not a soul around here?"

"Yeah ... now that you mention it. It is pretty quiet. This obviously isn't a major airfield, but it does have a decent runway and some buildings. But no people? Hmmmmm, that is weird," Ben mused.

Fred already stood inside one of the Quonset huts by the time Al and Ben caught up. The door was obviously not locked. It felt good to get out of the wind, but it was colder'n hell inside. "Any heat in here, Fred?" Ben shouted.

"Might be .. there's a tin stove over on the far side, and some old boards that we could burn, I guess. Don't see any firewood though. It's too dark in here to really tell what's available."

Soon their eyes adjusted to the darkened building, for there was but one small window in each end wall, and that covered by heavy wire mesh. The broken glass allowed a howling wind to whistle throughout. The dirt floor was stained darkly in many places, as though oil soaked.

Dozens of steel barrels, each perhaps 42 U.S. gallons in size, were stacked against both sides. An aisleway between the barrels went the full length of the structure.

A small wheeled cart appeared to be used for moving the barrels, though it looked rickety and likely to fall apart at any moment.

"Looks like these barrels on this side contain standard aviation gasoline ... not jet kerosene," Ben declared after dusting off a partly torn label. "I guess we could use it, but it'll tear up our fuel controllers.

"Same over here," Al responded. "Let's see how much there is." Ben and Al counted the barrels. It came to 150.

"No telling how long this stuff has been in here, or if it's still any good. You know what happens to gasoline left over the winter in your lawnmower. It's gummy and barely useable," Ben added. "And we don't know how many of these are full or empty."

"Let's say there's 4200 gallons here. That's 25000

pounds, more or less. It ain't much, but you know it could get us to the Lybian base," Al judged. "You guys see any signs of a hand pump?"

"Yeah .. over here. Is this what you mean?" Fred asked.

  "Good, but now we need a hose .. about 50 feet long. Any hose around here?"

"Here's some ... kinda oily and dirty, but it might work. There's about 35 or 40 feet, I'd guess," Ben declared.

"Okay then ... here's what I suggest. Let's get some rest, at least four or five hours. And then we'll grab something to eat from our survival kits .. or whatever we might have from our flight lunches. We're in no shape to start hustling fuel drums now. Sound like a plan?" Al offered.

"Sure .. sounds good. I'll get a fire going in that stove, so we can warm up."

"Better not, Fred. With what's obviously soaked into this dirt floor, you'd probably blow the whole place up. I think we'll have to do without a fire, at least inside this building. Let's check out the others," Al countered.

Fred was the first one to head for the next Quonset hut. In there he found more oil drums, but no stove. Labels on the drums indicated it was also aviation gasoline, 145 octane.

In the third hut, Fred discovered no barrels, but he did find another stove, some dirty canvas covers and even a crude table. "Hey, guys .. over here. This place looks like one we can get warm safely. And it's probably better place to get some shut-eye."

"There are about 60 gasoline drums in that second building, Al ... perhaps another 12,000 pounds of fuel. But more importantly, I found a better pump and hose," Ben revealed.

"Okay .. first things first. Fred, you see if you can get a fire going in that other hut. Ben and I will take inventory of the fuel. You got any matches?" Al suggested.

By banging on the sides of the drums, Al and Ben decided that nearly all of them were full. But until they unscrewed the end caps and checked , they couldn't tell if they had gasoline or molasses. Labels alone weren't that believable. Ben found a wrench, a special one used for opening barrels, and unscrewed one cap.

"It's gasoline all right. Sure hope the others are the same. But you know, Al ... using Avgas will hurt engine performance as well as gum up the fuel controllers. We'll lose at least 10% thrust .. and I have no idea how the afterburners will behave. I suspect we'd better not use them, for dumping raw gasoline in that after chamber could just cause an explosion."

"Yeah .. you're probably right. But as light as we'll be, afterburners won't be necessary. The runway is long enough to make a mil power takeoff (military thrust throttle setting, just short of afterburner use)," Al suggested. "But you're right .. we don't really know what'll happen. Sure wish these guys had JP-4."

Fred managed to get a fire going in the little sheet metal stove. Soon the area immediately near that fire was warm and toasty, but a mere ten feet away the Quonset hut was still freezing cold. The old, tattered and even dirty tarpaulins found within the hut became bedding for three dead tired aviators.

Six hours later Fred was the first to sir from his resting place, awakened by the cold. The fire in the stove was long since out and Fred's shoulder hurt even more in the cold. He arose, looked out the window to see if it was still daylight and got quite a surprise.

Out there on the parking ramp, surrounding their airplane were eight or nine men who looked like shepherds or farmers. Their curiosity was obvious, as they excitedly circled the strange airplane. One or two touched the engine cowlings, while others examined the tires and landing gear struts. None made any attempt to climb up onto the engines or wings.

"Al ... wake up. We've got company," Fred anxiously whispered to his sleeping pilot.

"Huh? ... what's the matter?"

"Wake up .. we've got company out there near the airplane." In a shot, Al was up and looking out the window at the men examining his airplane. Soon Ben stirred and asked what was going on.

Al put his boots back on, slipped on his jacket and headed out the door toward the intruders. No speaking Turkish, or anything except English and a little high school French, and didn't know what to say. Should he yell, threatening? Should he wave, smile and act friendly? Or should he just quietly walk out there and see what happened? He chose the last approach, telling his crew mates to stay out of site.

Casually, slowly, Al walked toward his airplane. One of the younger men saw him coming and shouted a warning to the others. Al smiled, broadly and waved his hand over his head in what he hoped would be taken as a friendly gesture.

"Hello .. Hi there," Al said in a calm, easy manner. He continued smiling in an exaggerated way.

The men backed away from the airplane, tentatively and forming one single group. There were eight of them. The didn't know quite what to make of Al. Was he alone? Was he armed? Why was this intruder and his strange airplane in their area?

Al decided to see if they understood the word petrol. "Petrol? Do you have petrol?" he asked, pointing to his airplane.

One of the men, an older fellow with graying hair and a grizzled beard, smiled and came forward. He spoke in a language which Al couldn't understand, except for the word "petrol" in some context or other. The old man pointed at the Quonset hut and repeated "petrol". Soon one or two of the others also pointed and repeated the word petrol.

"C'mon out guys ... slowly and with big smiles on your faces," Al shouted to his crew mates.

The men seemed disturbed by the appearance of two more men, but noted that they were not carrying guns. The broad friendly smiles appeared to help too. It soon became apparent that they spoke no English ... or even any of Al's halting French.

Ben tried some Spanish, but that didn't work either. So Al kept repeating "petrol" and pointed to his airplane. Eventually, the group seemed to understand that the airplane needed petrol. Unhesitatingly, three of the men ran over to the first Quonset hut and brought forth a barrel of gasoline on that rickety cart.

Al smiled, nodded and said enthusiastically, "Yes .. yes ... petrol, petrol," ... and with a sweep of his hand motioned for the barrel to be brought to the airplane.

The men understood. But the apparently thought that one barrel was enough, for they placed the barrel next to the #1 engine and stood there, hands crossed on their chests. Al struggled in his mind with a way to convince them that he'd need more ... much more.

"More ... more," he said. "More petrol." And then Al motioned first toward the building and then to the airplane, again and again. The men just stood there, looking puzzled.

Ben had an idea. He took a small stone and scratched the number 100 on the cement. Then he pointed first at the hut and then at the airplane, saying "petrol" again and again. He pointed at the number scratched in the ground and repeated "petrol".

  Fred stepped over toward Ben and drew a picture of the barrel and motioned between the barrel and the number 100, back and forth, finally pointing at the airplane. The men now understood and chattered excitedly amongst themselves, some saying "Oooooh ... Ahhhhh" or something like that. It appeared that they'd gotten the message, but weren't all that pleased about it.

Yet when one of the older men spoke in a firm tone, several of the younger ones headed for the Quonset hut and barrels began accumulating next to the airplane.

"Yes .. yes," Al excitedly responded. "Hey guys, looks like we're gonna have some help. Ben, go get that tool and the pump with hose. Fred, are you up to pumping? At least enough to give these guys the general idea?"

Ben returned and opened the barrel closest to the #2 engine. Al took the other end of the hose, as Ben screwed the barrel cap off and inserted the pump. Then Al climbed up onto the wing, using the #1 engine intake as a stepping point. It wasn't easy, but he finally got up atop the wing.

"As soon as I get one of these tank caps open, start pumping."

"Yeah, okay ... but make sure you only put fuel in the forward tank. Don't want to stand her on her tail," Ben cautioned.

"Right ... will do," and Al re-closed the aft tank cap he'd already opened. Next he moved toward the fuselage and the forward tank cap. "Okay .. start pumping, Fred."

It took quite a while to get the pump primed and the fuel flowing, but gradually the hose filled and gasoline poured out of the hose. The up and down motion of the wobble pump soon took its toll on Fred's shoulder. He motioned for one of the local men to take over, even placing the man's hand onto the handle and getting him into the motion of the process.

For three hours the crew and their cooperative new friends rolled our barrels, pumped gas and shuffled empty barrels out of the way. The small of gasoline was heavy in the air. Al was afraid that one of the men would pause for a smoke, but that didn't happen.

100 barrels of aviation gas, or about 27,000 pounds of fuel filled the forward tank, the reservoir tank and then part of the aft main tank. The effort paid off. 075 was now gassed enough to reach Libya and their primary recovery base some two and a half hours away.

Al closed the tank caps and handed down the hose, saying, "We'll leave the rest of the gasoline for the next guys who might needs it."

Then Al went to each man in the group, starting with the eldest and obvious leader. He shook their hands and said, "Thank you ... thank you," repeatedly. Then he handed the eldest man a U.S. $20 bill, and though the man acted as though he didn't want it, Al folded the man's fingers over it and nodded to indicate that he should keep it. Both men smiled, and then the old man abruptly hugged Al and kissed him on both cheeks. That surprised Al, but he managed to stay composed and smiled broadly.

Turning to Ben, Al exclaimed, "Best bargain in gasoline I ever made. These guys are terrific."

"You bet ... I'm glad we didn't have to do all that work ourselves. Why don't you climb up and on battery power

see what the fuel gauges read? We're over 800 miles away from the next base in Lybia ... somewhere near Bengasi on the coast."

One of the men in the crowd overhead Ben say "Bengasi", and it was obviously a word he knew. He raised his hand in the air, mimicking the flight of an airplane and saying repeatedly, "Bengasi, Bengasi".

Al smiled at him and repeated the motion with his hand own hand ... making like an airplane taking off and turning toward Bengasi to the south southwest. Both men smiled in mutual understanding. And without a word further, the group of locals quickly walked away toward the river and that small village.

"Well ... I guess they're going home to supper. They're gone now. I'll go up and check the fuel gauges, but I suggest that we hang around here for the night and get some sleep. Those fellows didn't seem like a threat and we sure could use some more rest."

Ben agreed and stood at the bottom of the ladder as Al climbed up into his cockpit. Soon the battery switch brought forth a hum of fans and instruments coming to life. Al quickly turned the battery switch off and stuck his head up over the cockpit rail. "Looks like we've got 29,000 pounds, Ben. I'm coming down now."

"29,000 pounds is about right, Al," Ben confirmed. We loaded about 27,000 and there was 2,000 left when we shut down. That'll get us airborne and have maybe two or two and a half hours endurance, depending on how bad that gasoline effects the engines."

Back in the third hut, the one with the stove, Fred once again had a fire going. It sure felt good, for the chill of late afternoon began to cut right through their clothes. Fred's sensitivity to the cold in his shoulder made the warmth of the fire especially welcome.

"It ain't the Hilton, but it sure beats trying to sleep out there in the cold and wind," Ben declared. "Hey, Al? Where are those starter cartridges?"

"I've got one up in the front cockpit ... and Fred, you should have the other two in yours."

"Don't think so, Al ... only saw one," Fred replied.

"Shit ... there were supposed to be three. Oh, wait a minute. There's one already installed in the #4 engine. That's where it is." Al referred to the receptacle in only the #4 engine. The black powder starter cartridges would provide a high pressure gas flow to turn over the one engine. Each cartridge was about the size of a two-quart thermos bottle and fired electrically. Cross-bleed of air from that engine, once it was running, to the others would be used to start them, if it worked.

Fred, Ben and Al sat on the floor, atop their tarps. The sunset was especially pretty that night, but they were too tired to notice. Each nibbled at the last of their inflight meals and some of the emergency rations from the survival kits. It wasn't much, but it relieved the hunger pangs. To drink they made instant tea with water heated in cans emptied from the meal. That tasted good.

Before 8:00 P.M. all three were curled up under their tarps and fast asleep. That refueling task was more physical labor than they'd done in a long time. But at least it took their minds off the sadness about what happened back home.

Before sunrise, Fred arose and restarted the fire. All he had for fuel was broken boards and parts of cargo pallets collected from all three huts. There were no logs or firewood available. Soon it warmed up enough for the other two to crawl out from under their tarp covers.

"Coffee ready yet?" Ben inquired.

"Yeah .. you wish," Fred replied. "And how about some ham and eggs? Fat chance."

Shortly after the sun came up, all three headed out to the plane. It was bitterly cold, but at least the wind wasn't blowing. Ben pulled the rocks away from the tires that they'd used as chocks. None of the locals appeared as they in turn climbed Ben's handy-dandy ladder into their respective cockpits.

The battery switch brought the intercom to life and Ben told Al he would figure the takeoff speeds and runway needed to get airborne, not using the afterburners.

"You guys ready," Al asked, knowing that to be a silly question. Ben responded by saying he as ready with the Engine Start checklist.

Soon a cloud of black smoke billowed around the #4 engine as Al fired the starter cartridge. The RPM climbed and Al advanced the throttle, hit the ignition switch and hoped. "C'mon ... light ... light, damn it."

Suddenly, with a shudder and roar, the #4 engine sprang to life and the RPM reached normal idle.

"Yea .. all right," Ben exuberantly shouted. "Better keep the RPM up a little higher than normal to provide enough pressure in the manifold to start the others."

All four engines soon came alive, and Al turned on the electrical system. "Okay, guys .. you've got power. Let's get ready to go."

Chapter Eight - Libya Next

Fred reported that his radar was still inoperative, but the gyro platform appeared to be working, as well as the remainder of his systems ... inertial navigation, Doppler, radar altimeter and the computers. Ben checked the radios, though there wasn't anybody to talk to. All he heard was the crackle of static.

"Oh shit ... I forgot to send the strike report. In all the excitement yesterday, I forgot to send that report on the short-wave (HF) radio before we landed. I'll try now, before we take off, and if that doesn't work, I'll try again after we're in the air."

"Don't worry about it ... as screwed up as communications were, they probably wouldn't have gotten it anyway," Al casually replied.

Ben tried the HF radio on several frequencies and got no response from anyone. So he decided to send the encoded message in the blind, just in case.

"Looks like takeoff distance will be 6500 feet, Al. That's without afterburners. Rotate at 190 knots and decision speed is 145, assuming you use the drag chute to abort."

"Well guess what? We're deciding now ... and unless we lose an engine or something, we're going to take off. I just hope we don't blow a tire. That worries me more than engine performance. I can always try to light an afterburner, gasoline or no, if we need the thrust."

Al taxied 075 back toward the runway, and since there was no wind, he elected to head for the turn-around pad that they'd used before. The airplane thump thumped along as they taxied, each bump a reminder of how rough that surface was, and how it didn't do those tires any good.

The engine run-up and instrument checks prior to take-off seemed normal. The Engine pressure ratio (EPR) gauge reflected a little less than normal thrust, but that didn't surprise Al. The 1454 octane aviation gas did indeed effect engine performance, just about the 10% Ben predicted.

"Here we go," Al announced as he set the throttles to maximum thrust, just short of activating the afterburners.

The aircraft accelerated almost normally. "There goes 145 knots, coming up on rotate speed at 195. Lookin' good."

Ben sat nervously in his aft station seat, knowing that he couldn't eject if anything went wrong. That pin was still jammed and he didn't know what else was wrong.

Fred gave Al a heading for Bengasi .. 220 degrees. Estimated time enroute calculated to be two hours and twenty minutes. Ben suggested an optimum cruise altitude of 30,000 feet, for they were lighter than normal. Fuel remaining after the takeoff and climb out was 23,000 pounds ... or just about three hours to dry tanks.

It felt good to be airborne and headed toward their next stop, an airfield with jet fuel, support equipment and maybe even some real food. Bengasi was supposed to have capabilities to support commercial airliners, including jets with real jet fuel. The runway length showed on the charts as 12,000 feet long and elevation near sea level. Bengasi, Lybia's capital city had a modern airport.

"I sure could use a bath and a shave," Fred declared. "Wonder what we can expect at Bengasi?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, but I agree that you could use a bath all right," Ben chided. "According to our mission folder, all we can really expect is jet fuel, from a regular pumper truck, and engine oil. There's nothing here in the way of a tour guide book or Fodor's recommendation. But the tower has UHF, Al. I'll set that in on the #2."

"How we doing on this heading, Fred? And what's our ETA to Bengasi?"

"Heading's fine. ETA is 10:30 local. They're a hour earlier than we were at takeoff."

Soon Al flicked over to the #2 radio and called Bengasi tower. The tower operator didn't seem at all surprised to have a USAF call sign query him for landing instructions.

"Kingpin 75, you are cleared for approach and landing on runway 27. Altimeter is 29.86. Winds west at 15 knots. Call downwind."

"Roger, Bengasi ... Kingpin 75 copies."

Ben and Al coordinated the usual pre-landing checklist items and prepared top enter the traffic pattern at Bengasi. All three looked out of their windows to see the strange place there were about to visit. Bengasi was larger than they expected, and the flaming gas burnoff stacks from nearby oil fields revealed how much development existed in the surrounding coastal area.

Al checked in when 075 turned onto the base leg of the traffic pattern for runway 27. Thousands of sand-colored low buildings, with narrow streets revealed that this was a well-populated area, a large city.

Al once again elected not to deploy the drag chute. The 12,000 foot runway was long enough, and they were light enough not to need it. Thankfully, Al didn't hear the loud pop or feel the effects of a tire blowing on landing. That worried him, especially with the nearly bald left main tires.

"Kingpin 75," the tower called. "Continue your rollout to the end of the runway. Exit to your left and switch to ground control on 240.8 megahertz." Al acknowledged, just after he lowered the nose and began braking.

Ground control advised Kingpin 75 to taxi to the south ramp, and to obey the Follow-Me truck which appeared in front of them. Al observed a number of armed, uniformed guards or soldiers on the ramp. He wondered if they were there to protect or threaten his airplane and crew.

The Follow-Me truck led them to a clearly marked parking spot, and the driver stopped his vehicle and motioned Al to stop between two commercial airplanes. One was a Lybian airliner and the other bore a logo for BOAC, the British Overseas Airline Company. With the emergence of a big oil boom, air traffic into Lybia increased markedly.

Soon the crew felt the jolt of wheel chocks being slammed against the main gear tires. The completed the After Landing and Engine Shutdown checklists. 075 was safely parked, or so it appeared.

Thirty minutes they waited for someone to bring over an access stand. Finally, Ben unfurled his roll-up ladder and stepped down onto the tarmac. He though Africa was supposed to be warm, but it wasn't. Temperatures were in the 40's and the wind chill surprised him.

Eventually, a fuel truck with a Shell logo came along. The driver asked if they needed jet fuel. Ben motioned for the fellow to come closer, and turned to ask Al, "Hey, Al. Do we need jet fuel?"

Al laughed and nodded. Ben shouted up, "Your credit card or mine? Guess it'll have to be yours. I only carry Chevron."

"Throw me the line for that ladder. I'm coming down."

Al walked over to the truck and was surprised that the driver spoke English, or enough at least to communicate a bit. "Ya got JP-4 jet fuel," Al asked. And the driver responded that it wasn't JP-4, but the same fuel the airliners used. "Good enough," Al decided.

The driver walked over to the lower center point refueling receptacle and stared at it. "No good. My fuel nozzle won't fit this receptacle. Can gas you up."

"Oh yes you can ... we'll do it over the wing. Get your other hose and we'll run it up onto the wing and fill her that way."

"Ben, get up on the wing and we'll hand up the hose. You open the tank caps and we'll fill her up," Al ordered.

Up onto the #1 engine intake and then the wing Ben crawled. Soon Al handed him the nozzle, by way of a line which Ben pulled to bring the hose up. It took two hours to fill the tanks, 60,000 pounds of precious jet fuel. Three trucks were needed, but at last 075 was serviced.

The driver didn't understand the procedure for getting paid, especially when Al said he'd sign the voucher for the U.S. Government to settle up. "No, no ... cash only. 2500 U.S. dollars," he insisted.

"Take me to your boss," Al suggested. We'll straighten this out. Al and the driver headed off to the fuel dealer's office, leaving Fred and Ben at the airplane.

Soon a military truck appeared, with armed soldiers jumping down and surrounding 075. Ben and Fred couldn't understand what was going on. The leader of the armed group stepped forward, and in perfect English explained that they were there to protect the airplane.

"Protect us from what?" Ben inquired. "Why do we need protection?"

The leader, a Lieutenant Al Sad, explained that all military airplanes in his country were protected by armed troops. Ben shrugged his shoulders, saying, "Okay, guard your heads off if you like. Just keep back and don't touch anything." The lieutenant saluted and ordered his men to form a perimeter guard ring around the airplane.

"Fred, did you ever see anything like this? What in the hell are they guarding us for? Or are they really trying to keep us under control?"

"Who knows? Let's do a walk around inspection and see what condition the bird is in." Ben took the right side and Fred the left. They carefully checked the wheels, tires and external parts of the fuselage and wing. "These tires haven't got many landing left on 'em, Ben. Come here and look at this set."

"I don't know why we didn't blow a couple of those on landing. My god, you can see the white fibers. They're thin as paper," Fred exclaimed.

"Yup ... but until we see red fibers there's still some life in 'em. Wonder if there are any spares around here."

"You aren't going to try to change the tires .. are you Ben?"

"No. Don't know how. And besides, we don't have the tools. Those things carry 160 pounds of pressure. If you don't know what you're doing they can kill you. What I meant was, if they have spares for us maybe there's someone here that knows how to change the tires," Ben explained.

"Fat chance ... why would the place have unique tires like ours?"

Well, some airfields around the world have pre-positioned supplies and spare parts for situations like ours. Why else would this have been designated a primary recovery base. Somebody musta known our planes would be coming here someday."

"Yeah, maybe. But why then didn't they have a refueling nozzle to fit our receptacle? Don't expect much around here."

Soon Al returned with the Shell oil truck. And right behind came a black sedan bearing U.S. Consulate license plates. "Hey guys ... you hungry?" Al shouted. C'mon. Lunch is on the U.S. State Department."

"What the ?? ... Where did these fellows come from?" Fred asked in amazement.

"Get in, Major," the young man in a business suit invited. "We'll take you to the Consulate office and explain. You gentlemen hungry? How about a shower, shave and a clean bed to sleep in tonight?"

It took Ben all of two seconds to climb into the sedan. Fred got in too, but tentatively. This kind of reception was totally unexpected.

In seconds, Al joined them and introduced William Parsons, assistant to the U.S. Consul in the Bengasi office.

"The driver's boss agreed to take a government voucher, so the credit cards weren't necessary."

The sedan drove out of the airport gates and across town to the U.S. Consulate. From the outside it looked like a three-story office building, but inside it was much more. The three crewmen were quickly ushered into the office of the U.S. Consul, a Carl Habib. After a few minutes of small talk, they were invited to lunch in the small conference room down the hall.

"I guess you gentlemen haven't heard any news lately. Have you?" Mr. Habib inquired. "Well, a lot has happened since you left the states. Most importantly, a truce has been declared. Both sides agreed to stop hostilities and let the diplomats calm things down."

"A little late isn't it," Fred sharply responded. "My wife, family and everything are gone. Don't you think calming things down now is closing the barn door after the horse is gone?" Fred was angry and displayed his general contempt for diplomats.

"So how bad was it ... what were our losses and theirs, Mr. Habib?" Al asked.

"Pretty bad. Over 50 Soviet ICBM's hit targets around the country. No bombers made it though. That was surprising. Two dozen of our missile silos, half many air bases, several major harbors and cities and major hydro power facilities were hit. Estimates are that 25,000,000 Americans were killed. But the country is still viable and life goes on. Our allies in Europe generally escaped the devastation, except for the UK, which took five SRBM hits.

And the Soviets were hit back just as hard. You guys contributed to that, I suspect. They lost as much militarily and perhaps 15,000,000 people, mainly in Moscow and other big cities. It was a mess all around."

"So how did the truce come about," Ben asked his host.

"The Soviets sued for it ... realizing that their first blow didn't knock out our retaliatory capabilities, I'd guess. Over the red telephone, our President got a call from their Premier and agreed to immediate cessation of attacks, if we agreed. Neither side therefore has surrendered and nothing has been really resolved between us. But if you ask me, they realized that they'd under-estimated our capabilities and over-estimated their own."

"Well, that may have been right, for we came all the way down west central Russia, from Finland to Turkey and were hardly challenged. The biggest problems we had were with communications and our own equipment," Ben commented.

"Do you know, sir, if Fort Worth, Texas was hit? ... or Little Rock, Arkansas?" Al inquired, thinking that those were the only places that might be left which could support their airplane, if they made it back to the states.

"I don't think they hit Fort Worth, but I seem to recall Little Rock was hit. The full list is available with our military attaché, if you'd care to talk with him," Habib responded.

"Yes, please ... that would be appreciated. I have several questions concerning support for our aircraft that he might be able to answer."

"Well, if there's anything I can do, just speak up. You are, of course, welcome to stay here. Get some rest and recover from your tiring trip. Our country owes fellows like you a huge debt. I hate to eat and run, gentlemen, but I have a visitor in my office that I can't ignore. Bill Parsons will help you in any way he can. Excuse me, please," Habib explained as he rose to leave.

"I'll got get Colonel Davidson. He's our military attaché. He's Army, but I'm sure he can offer some assistance for you flyboys." Parsons left the room to just the three crewmen finishing their meal.

"Boy, I was hungry. That steak sandwich and salad hit the spot," Fred remarked. "Do you suppose they have someone here who can look at my shoulder? It's killing me."

A nattily dressed fellow, with graying hair and mustache soon entered the room. "Bill Davidson, fellows. Welcome to our humble abode. I'm the military attaché around these parts and will do whatever I can to assist, though I have to say our resources are limited." The crew was a little surprised to see the colonel dressed in civvies, and more surprised to see how much older he was than colonels they'd known in the Air Force. Davidson looked like he might be nearing 55 or even 60.

Al asked Davidson if there was a medical team or doctor in the consular staff. He and Fred discussed the shoulder problem. Then Al asked if there was a secure way of getting their mission strike report back to SAC headquarters.

"Well, I'm afraid there is no SAC Headquarters, fellows.

Offutt Air base and all of Omaha are gone. There were some folks in the airborne command post, the Looking Glass airplane. I hear that they are in Texas someplace now. I could try to get a message to the general aboard if you like. And yes, we have secure radio and teletype capabilities. We also have encryption people who can format your messages. Would that help?" Then Davidson explained that he'd have their staff doctor stop by to check on Fred's shoulder.

"Yes, colonel. Thanks. I think that we better do that. And then there's some logistics matters we need to discuss," Al continued.

A steward came into the room and invited Ben and Fred to follow him to the guest quarters. There the crew would find hotel-like accommodations and some fresh clothes. It sounded good, especially when shower and shaving was mentioned. The crew was pretty grungy and smelly, after their night in Turkey under the dirty old tarpaulins.

Al followed Davidson to the secure communications room and made out his report on their flight. His message to the general on the airborne command post team requested specific instructions about bringing their airplane home. Questions about the status of waypoint refueling and support, state side destination and the like were included.

"My crew tells me that there are some troops, Lybian we think, surrounding our airplane on the ramp. What do you know about that, colonel?" Al was concerned that the Lybians might try to take possession of their plane.

"Oh, that's nothing to worry about. Their military doesn't have a whole lot to do, so when an excuse like protecting a visiting bomber comes along, they like to put on a show. Don't worry about it. It's probably a good idea, to keep possible thieves away."

Al inquired about any prepositioned spare parts for B-58s that might be in the area. He mentioned the sad shape of his tires and concern of a blowout. Davidson said he'd check but that he had no specific knowledge of such stores.

That night the crew slept well. Fred's shoulder turned out to be sprained and not broken. Some tape and liniment and Tylenol gave relief. The steward even took their flight suits to be laundered, and furnished clean socks and underwear. Ben remarked that he was thinking of putting in for attaché duty when they got back. The embassy in Copenhagen might be good duty, he suggested.

Clean, fed and rested, the crew accepted Colonel Davidson's offer of a short tour of the city. Bengasi (Benghazi) looked poor, with ruins of WW2 apparent. Long an important regional seaport, it is named for Ibn Ghazi, a holy man of the 16th century. The city, second largest in Lybia with a population of over 300,000, took the brunt of repeated bombing attacks by both the Allies and the Germans. Reconstruction came slowly, largely assisted by revenues from the discovery of oil in the region in 1959.

Davidson explained that he was chosen for this assignment as military attaché because he spoke Arabic, a big help to the crew as they toured the ancient walled city and marketplace. Ben bought some souvenirs, almost instinctively as tourists do. Later that day he wondered why he did that, realizing that there were no family members back home to receive them. Al and Fred probably knew that as well and didn't take advantages of the bargains available in the bazaars.

The men were impressed with how active the seaport city appeared. Vessels from all around the Mediterranean filled the docks. A few small naval vessels appeared in one portion of the waterfront, nothing larger than a corvette or small destroyer.

Oil pipelines and storage tanks clearly reflected the priority construction, and the newest revenue source for the country. New roads and hotels under construction, obviously catered to commercial clients rather than tourists. The city didn't seem all that appealing to Al and his crew. Historic clearly, but appealing, no.

On returning to the consular offices, Al discovered that attempts to reach the surviving SAC decision makers failed. There were no messages telling him where to take his crew and airplane. He decided, after discussing it with Ben and Fred, that Fort Worth should be their destination back in the states. Ben wondered if it might be possible to at least overfly their old base, just to see what might be left. Sympathetic as he was, for his own reasons too, Al explained that their beat up old airplane might not even get them to Texas, much less all the way up to Indiana for a look see.

Davidson's inquiries on the matter of spare parts, especially tires, turned up nothing. Al thanked him for his efforts, but realized that they were on their own and 075 might or might not get them home.

Two more days of rest, good food and recouping from their recent ordeals made the men anxious to resume their journey. Fred's shoulder felt much improved, or at least the pain killers made is less bothersome. The three agreed that on the next day they would take off, this time for the west African coast, 2000 miles away.

Assistant consul Parsons drove them out to the airport so they could check on their airplane and the availability of an air starter cart for the next morning's take off. The Lybian air force and the country's government run airline didn't offer much, but the BOAC station manager did come up with a cart that might just work. The efforts of a resourceful Lybian mechanic jury-rigged a hose adaptor they could use. Things began to look up.

The armed troops continued standing guard, and the lieutenant greeted Al with a friendly smile. He followed Al on his exterior inspection of the airplane, showing great interest in everything. He asked dozens of questions about the bomber's weight, speed, cruising altitudes and even its navigational gear. He'd never seen such a sophisticated machine. The expressions on his face amused Al, reminding him of youngsters seeing the airplane on Armed Forces Day back home.

"Looks like we'll be able to get out of here right after breakfast tomorrow," Al explained to his crew.

"Great," Ben responded. "And speaking of food, I wonder if we could talk the consulate folks out of some food we might bring along. No telling where our next meals will come from."

Parsons drove the crew out to the airport again, helping them load and carry their gear and two boxes of food. When they arrived at the airplane, the armed guards didn't seem as friendly as the day before. The lieutenant from yesterday was not on duty and the current one spoke no English. The guards would not let the crew approach the plane, brandishing their guns threatenly.

"Now what in the hell do we do," Ben asked Parsons.

Once again the Colonel Davidson came to their aid. Unexpectedly, there he appeared. And in no time he was firmly giving orders in Arabic to the guards, suggesting that this was no way to treat American heroes and reminding them of how Americans had saved Lybia from the Germans in WW2 and were again protecting the world. He laid it on thick and the guards backed off, most apologetically.

"Just wanted to come down and see what one of the beasts looked like. Boy, that's a really impressive flying machine you boys have here. May I look inside?" Davidson asked.

And from out of nowhere, here came one of those airline stairways, rolling up to 075 like it was a commercial plane. In grand style Davidson climbed the steps, leaned over into Al's front cockpit and stared at all the instruments and controls. "This is really impressive. Don't think I could ever master all that complicated stuff. Really beyond my ken."

The problem of the guards solved, as well as how to get up into the cockpits more easily, the next challenge became that of hooking up the jury-rigged air starter cart adaptor. The fellows from the Shell service group and some of the BOAC line mechanics appeared and were determined to get this strange, stilt-legged bomber going.

"Oh yes, fellows. I though you might like to know that I contacted the Air Force contingent at Torrejon air base near Madrid, Spain. It seems that they have support capabilities for you, even some spare tires, if you're interested," Davidson off-handedly declared.

"You bet we're interested. That changes everything," Al responded. "Okay crew ... lets change to Plan B and head for Torrejon instead. I should have thought of that."

"Sounds like a good idea," Ben echoed. "In fact, there should be some fellows there who have actually seen one of our birds. Didn't we fly a couple to Torrejon two years ago, just so they could become familiar with the B-58?"

"Colonel Davidson, you probably saved our bacon with that suggestions. Yes sir, we're headed for Spain instead of the west coast of Africa. Would you sent 'em a message and let them know that we'll be there in about four hours?" Al requested.

"Be glad to, gents ... and it was a pleasure having you drop in. Most excitement we've had around here in weeks.

Good luck and have a good flight," Davidson responded, waving good bye.

After the crew cranked up the #3 and #4 engines, the BOAC mechanic handed up the air cart hose adaptor, saying to Ben, "Here, take this with you. You may need it before you get home. Good luck, fellows."

  Chapter Nine - On to Espana

With all four engine now running and the airplane appearing to be mostly functional, Al called for taxi and takeoff clearance. He advised the tower that 075 was headed for Madrid, Spain and nearby Torrejon air base.

"Rotate at 200 knots, Al," Ben reminded, as 075 sped down the runway. Suddenly, at about 175 knots they heard it. BLAM .. went one of the tires.

"Gotta continue," Al exclaimed. "Rotating at 200 knots."

The rapidly accelerating bomber lifted off, one tire on the left main landing gear disintegrating from the stress of take off. Al decided not to rush in bringing up the landing gear. If there were bits of rubber spinning off from the still rotating rim, he preferred that they not bang around within the wheel wells.

"You want to make a flyby and have the tower visually check for damage?" Ben inquired.

"No ... I think we're all right. Just as soon as I get the wheels braked and the chance of parts flying around, we can retract normally and continue on our way. I'm sure as hell hoping we've got the remaining tires on the wheels for our landing at Torrejon."

The plane climbed normally and took Fred's suggested heading of 300 degrees. Level off at 28000 feet would put them near optimum altitude.

"You know that we don't have any Madrid weather information," Fred offered. "It may not be as good at it was here in Bengasi."

About an hour out, Ben tried this HF radio to see if he could raise Torrejon. The short-wave frequencies gave them much great communication range than normal UHF line-of-sight affords.

"Didn't get Torrejon, Al," Ben reported, but I did get ahold of someone at Lajes air base in the Azores. Figure that, will you."

"And? .... what did they say about Torrejon's weather?" Al insisted.

"Not too bad. Overcast conditions, Light snow and cold, but definitely above minimums. Ceiling reported at the last hour to be 5000 feet. Forecast to remain about the same for the next six hours, and the current altimeter setting for Madrid is 29.90," Ben relayed.

"Good. What's our ETA at Torrejon, Fred?"

"If these winds aloft remain about what we've got now, I'd say Torrejon at 1400 Zulu (Greenwich Mean Time)," Fred replied. He was able to determine the winds using his Doppler radar's drift and groundspeed data. "But my mapping radar is still inoperative," he added.

The flight across the Mediterranean was smooth. No problems. It got a bit bumpy as the made landfall near Cartagena, not far south of Valencia. Radio contact with Torrejon tower brought clearance for approach and landing. Al advised the tower that they'd be landing with at least one blown tire and requested fire trucks to stand by. The tower alerted the US Air Force team on the Spanish base, surprising them with the news that a B-58 approached. The commander of the USAF contingent, a Major Alex Stewart, rounded up his troops and had the support team find the B-58 maintenance handbooks, just in case.

"Flare speed will be about 185 knots," Ben advised, after calculating the landing gross weight and other factors. Torrejon was just outside Madrid proper and at about 4000 feet above sea level. Winds were reported to be steady at 20 knots and right down the runway.

"Okay guys," Al cautioned. "Brace yourselves. I don't know how many tires we've got on the left main, so it could be a rough landing. I'll do what I can to put the weight on the right trucks at first, but as we lose speed she'll settle onto both. And, Ben ... I'm going to use the drag chute here. At this elevation we'll need it, and I don't want to jump too hard on the brakes with one or more tires missing. If we veer off the runway, it'll likely be to the left as the wheels dig in. Hang on."

Flaring at 185 knots, Al managed to touch down smoothly, first on the right main and then gently onto the left. He lowered the nose, popped the drag chute and pulled the nose up again for aerodynamic drag. When the nose came down with loss of elevon effectiveness, he tapped the brakes gingerly. 075 rolled to the end of the runway and then veered onto the high-speed taxiway, still moving at 50 knots. About 1500 feet down onto that angled taxiway, Al stopped the aircraft. Two fire trucks and an ambulance, all with red flashing lights came in close.

A fireman in metallic-coated protective clothing came over, extinguisher in hand, and looked over the landing gear. Then he stepped back and gave al the high sign, indicating that there was no serious damage, no fire or smoking tires. He did, however, move his hand horizontally under his chin to suggest shutting down the engines right there on the taxiway. That didn't surprise Al, for he felt it unwise to move the airplane until the tires could be replaced.

"Checklists completed," Ben reported as 075's engines slowly stopped and things became very quiet. "Don't see anyone with a ladder, do you Al?"

"No .. no ladders or stands."

"Okay then .. we'll use my handy dandy roll-up," Ben declared, his canopy already manually opened.

The crew, in turn, descended using Ben's ladder. Firemen surrounding the airplane were bemused by the decidedly low-tech system the crew used to get to the ground. Ben looked at the closest fireman and said, "Hey, don't laugh. It works."

A quick walk-around inspection revealed that two tires on the left main gear were blown. One completely separated from the rim and the other had but few pieces attached. No

apparent damage could be found from flying debris, to the wing or wheel well. It was fortunate that the airplane was well below maximum weight for takeoff and landing.

The Air Force major in charge of the Torrejon contingent affirmed the availability of replacement tires. In fact, maintenance troops quickly brought hydraulic jacks out to 075, lifted the left trucks and prepared to replace the missing tires. Additionally, they changed one of the tires on the right main and another on the nose gear. Then they towed the airplane to a parking spot near the hangars.

Al tried to get ahold of the SAC headquarters people, both to report their status and to request tanker support for the hop across the Atlantic to the states. They could make it unrefueled to Lajes air base in the Azores, but not the full Atlantic crossing.

No luck. The SAC general and his staff, reported to be somewhere in Texas, could not be reached. And with the Pentagon lost, as well as other headquarters, he couldn't reach anyone in authority. With no tanker to give them the necessary fuel for the long ocean crossing, they had no choice but to stick with the original plan of flying south to western Africa and make the crossing at the ocean's narrowest point.

The USAF team at Torrejon performed exceptionally well. Not only were the tires replaced, the airplane serviced with jet fuel and engine oil, but they also filled nitrogen bottle used for canopy opening. A bit of creative shade-tree mechanic work also repaired Ben's ejection seat.

But there was nothing they could do for the tail gun radar or the lost radome. They did managed to repack and replace the drag chute, so 075 soon appeared to be ready to go.

Al and Fred were anxious to spend a little time in nearby Madrid. Back in their B-47 days, what seemed like ages ago, they spent several weeks at Torrejon on temporary duty then called Reflex. In those days SAC moved airplanes and crews to forward bases like Torrejon, placing medium range bombers like the B-47 closer to the Soviet Union if war broke out. From those earlier days the two remembered some of the delights of Madrid, its terrific restaurants and magnificent shopping. On past trips they brought home to family and friends hundreds of Madrid bargains.

The on-base guest facilities for visiting flight crews were much sparser this time. The VOQ was reduced to just four rooms. The Officers Club was gone, and the Base Operations resources to support flight planning, weather briefings and the like were gone. Most former USAF facilities were turned over to the Spanish air force and no longer available. The changes dismayed Al and Fred, who remembered how complete support services used to be.

They did manage to borrow a car and drive into Madrid, just to see if some of their old favorite places still existed. Ben was quite excited to see the place for the first time, and having experienced tour guides made it even more interesting.

"Look there," Al declared, pointing to a downtown hotel under construction. "I don't think they've added ten more bricks since we were here in 1960. That place was at just the same state of construction last time. So much for progress." Fred laughed and agreed, but somehow neither man seemed too surprised, more amused.

A place called the "Cowboy Bar", a popular watering hole for visiting Americans was still there. And the lobby of the Hilton hotel looked pretty much the same as it did. Fred said that you could sit in the lobby and soon see practically every movie star or celebrity pass through, if you waited long enough. It was very popular, and this day seemed to be busy as well, though no familiar faces passed by. The visit to the city, though barely three hours, was exciting for Ben and warmly reminiscent for Al and Ben.

"Let's get some shut eye and plan on getting out of here tomorrow by 10:00 A.M.," Al suggested. "We've got to plan our route down to west Africa and then across to South America. From there we'll probably need two to three hops up through Central America or the Caribbean to Texas."

"Why don't we go the northern route, Torrejon to Lajes in the Azores and then up to Gander, Newfoundland?" Fred proposed. "It's actually shorter."

"Shorter, perhaps," Al responded. "But with the winter weather and winds over the North Atlantic, it's risky. If we get to the Azores and they're socked in, we'll have to return to Lisbon or Torrejon. And the hop from Lajes to Gander is riskier yet. If we find Gander weather lousy, we have no return options or other reasonably close alternates. Nope, I think the long way around is safer."

"You know, it's hard to believe from what we're seeing in these parts that a major war just took place. Life goes on here. The problems of the U.S. and the Soviet Union don't seem to matter," Ben remarked.

"Well, these folks don't know it, but they'll soon pay a price for our idiotic actions, the Soviets and ours," Fred added. The radiation fallout from the exchange of nuclear bombs will effect them in time. And the change in the world economy has got to be felt here too. Trade will drop off, and even the benefits these folks get from American tourism will drop. Even the Brits won't come to the sunny Mediterranean like they used to. The UK took several hits and it will be years before they recover.

"Yeah. Kinda makes you wonder what those numbskulls in the Kremlin were trying to accomplish .. or for that matter our own numskulls in Washington. This could have been avoided if the diplomats and politicians had their heads screwed on right," Al declared, a tone of anger in his

voice.

"What's our first stop on the way home," Ben asked. "It'll have to be under 2500 miles away."

Fred and Al looked over their charts. Finally, Fred suggested, "How about Dakar in French West Africa (Senegal after 1959) or Bathurst (Banjul after 1973) in British controlled Gambia? Those are the two points where it's a short hop over to Recife, Brazil."

"How far is it from Torrejon to Dakar?" Ben inquired.

"Just under 2200 miles, as the crow flies," Al responded. "We can make that."

Fred figured up the details of a flight plan to Dakar, with an alternate landing at Bathurst should Dakar weather become a problem. Bathurst was another 100 miles.

"So? Why don't we try for Bathurst?" Ben asked, thinking that his French wasn't all that great. Gambia, the charts indicated, was a British possession. "Either on would put us in a good position for the Atlantic crossing."

"I know what I forgot to ask the major about," Al remembered. "I want to see if he's got any engine starter cartridges that we can have. Some of these intermediate stops along the way home probably won't have air carts."

Soon Al came back into the planning room, reporting to his crewmates that there weren't any starter cartridges available. "Guess we'll have to improvise after we use the one we have left," he explained. "But I did find out that the major suggested Dakar over Bathurst as our primary stopover. It seems that the airport there is bigger and serve commercial jetliners. Our chances of getting jet fuel will be better at Dakar."

"And how about some grub?" Ben inquired. "We'd better be prepared on that score too."

"You and your stomach," Fred retorted.

"Well, that been taken care of too," Al explained. We have ten K-ration type meal boxes awaiting us at the airplane. That ought to keep skin and bones alive for a few days, if we don't find other food sources along the way."

 Chapter Ten - From Torrejon Go South

By 9:30 that morning the crew was ready to start engines and head south to Dakar. The Torrejon facilities included air start carts, so they didn't have to use their one remaining black powder cartridge. Soon they received tower clearance for takeoff and turned 075 onto the runway.

Ben reminded Al of the decision and rotate speeds, and that 075 would use up 7500 feet to get airborne. Afterburners were not needed, as they were still light enough without the bomb and fuel pods, so it wouldn't take as much fuel for takeoff and climbout as it typically would.

Leveling off at cruise altitude of 28,000 feet, 075 had 44,000 pounds of fuel available. That would carry them almost four hours or 2500 miles, unless the winds turned against them.

"I found out what is the likely problem with this radar," Fred announced. "The Torrejon troops suggested that from the symptoms it displayed before dying completely, we lost pressure in the transmitter unit."

"Well, whatever the reason, it sure doesn't help not being able to see what's out there, or where the core of thunderstorms might be," Al responded. "We'll be in equatorial regions soon and big thunderstorms are a definite possibility."

"Time to alter heading to 195 degrees, Al," Fred reported. We'll cut straight across the western desert south of Marrakech, but you'll probably be able to see the coast off to your right, if visibility is good. ETA to Dakar is about 1300 hours local time, 1400 Zulu."

"Assuming that we are able to keep this bird flying for the next few days, Al," Ben began. "What do you expect we'll find when we get to Texas. We are headed for Fort Worth, aren't we?"

"Yes, Fort Worth and Carswell AFB is the best choice for a couple of reasons," Al explained. "Firstly, it's the only place I know of that's left in the states to offer our support equipment and maintenance capabilities. The General Dynamics plant there built this thing, so it'll be like coming home for 075. And I think that Carswell is where we might find whatever is left of the SAC command structure. My guess is that's where the airborne command post airplane wound up, there or nearby Shreveport, Louisiana."

Ben wondered how many of the 90 B-58s in the SAC inventory might still exist. Only a dozen even got aloft from their Indiana base. And maybe the same number got away from Little Rock, if they were lucky. He knew that there were just five still airborne from the Indiana bunch at the tanker rendezvous, when they were outbound. A little more mental arithmetic suggested that perhaps only a dozen were left at all. Not a very good survival rate, he mused.

"Any guesses what the Air Force, SAC or whatever will want of us when we get to Texas," Fred inquired.

"Your guess is as good as mine," Al responded. "I don't think we have to worry about alert or ORI's any more though. There aren't any inspection teams left, I'd bet. It wouldn't surprised me if we got some leave time to go check in with family or relatives. Oh .. sorry, guys. I meant parents, aunts and uncles not in Indiana when we left."

The impact of Al's inadvertent remark hit deeper than he could have imagined. In the next hour or so, nobody on the crew said another word. Once again each man continued grieving in his own way. The unimaginable loss back at their home base couldn't be judged. Each knew that their wives and children were gone, as well as whatever worldly possessions they had. Ben's quirky imagination suddenly gave him a mental picture of Al's tired old Plymouth being the only thing still standing back there, but he decided not to mention it.

"Looks like there are thunderstorms brewing along the coastline," Al observed. "In a few minutes I'll call Dakar tower to see what their weather is. We'd better not descend from optimum cruise altitude until we know if we have to continue on to Bathurst."

Twenty minutes out of Dakar, Al called the control tower for a weather report and to alert them that a B-58 was inbound. He was surprised to hear that the tower crew had no idea what a B-58 was, but pleased to learn that the weather was decent.

"That runway, according to my charts, is 3040 meters long .... or over 10,000 feet," Ben told Al. "We probably won't have to use the drag chute."

"Yeah .. you're right, but what you really are saying is you don't want us to have to repack and reload it. I got your message," Al responded. "You are as subtle as a brick, my friend."

The airport control tower cleared 075 to land, advising strong southeast winds. Fortunately that was right down the runway and helped reduce the roll out. "Kingpin 75, you are cleared to the military parking area," the tower advised on realizing that a B-58 was not an airliner. So Al taxied on over to where a small collection of Korean War vintage T-37's and F-86's belonging to the Senegalese air forces were parked.

There were no ground crews to greet 075 as it pulled to a stop. In fact Al saw no people at all in the so-called military parking area. Before shutting down the engines, Al asked the control tower to have a fuel truck, with jet fuel, sent over to 075. The tower acknowledged and said they would call the airport manager.

Ben once more unfurled his roll-up ladder and climbed down. Over by one of the Senegalese fighters he saw some wooden wheel chocks not being used, so he dragged them over and placed them against the main landing gear. Soon Fred and Al were on the ground and checking 075's condition. Things looked okay and even the tires showed no extraordinary wear.

In a few minutes a white sedan, bearing an official flag, drove up. The rear door opened and a gentlemen in a crisp white business suit stepped out. He walked over to the crew and introduced himself as the airport manager. He then advised that a fuel truck was on its way. The manager was old enough to remember WW2 days when U.S. forces occupied Dakar.

The weather was quite different from what the crew recently experienced in Madrid. Here temperatures were in the mid-80's (F), the humidity was high and winds were very strong. At 14 degrees north latitude, Dakar's climate was tropical.

"Gentlemen," the manager greeted with a heavy French accent to his excellent English, "Welcome to Yoff airport and my fair city of Dakar. We will do whatever we can to make your stay pleasant. Will you require accommodations for the night?"

Al thanked the manager, explaining that lodging for the night would be appreciated, but his first concern was the servicing 075 and securing it for the night. Almost immediately, two fuel trucks drove up, each with tanks marked "Jet Fuel". A driver in coveralls ran over to Al, asking in French how much fuel they'd need. The airport manager translated the query into English. Ben and Al conferred briefly and asked for 40,000 pounds. The driver didn't understand, even after the number was translated.

"Better convert that to liters, Al," Fred suggested. That came to about 10,200 liters, a number which surprised both the manager and the driver.

Then arose the problem of a proper adaptor to fit the airplane's single point refueling receptacle. Ben realized that what they needed was the jury-rigged adaptor they picked up in Bengasi, so he climbed back into the airplane and retrieved it. The problem solved, now 075 could be serviced and readied for the next flight.

It took almost an hour to complete the refueling, get the manager to understand that the U.S. Government would honor the fuel purchase voucher signed by Al, and to finally secure the airplane, with all canopies closed. The crew climbed into the manager's sedan and the driver took them to a small hotel just beyond the airport perimeter. The three thanked the airport manager, but inquired about a ride back to their plane in the morning.

In the lobby of the small hotel, several airline flight crews were checking in for the night as well. They looked at the three B-58 crewmen, surprised to see airmen in military flying suits, rather than the business-suit type uniforms they wore. An exchange of smiles and small pleasantries, in English, revealed that this hotel frequently accommodated airline crews. Seldom, though, were U.S. Air Force combat crews guests.

A pair of second floor connecting rooms suited the B-58 boys nicely. Al had one room and Fred and Ben shared the other. The accommodations were not elegant, but comfortable, except for one thing. There was no air conditioning, or even a room fan. The air was muggy, so Fred quickly opened the windows to let in the breeze. Curtains immediately flew out nearly horizontal in that southeast wind.

After a half hour or so, Ben suggested that they see if the hotel had a dining room ... or even a lounge. Soon the three descended the stairs to ask the desk clerk. As luck would have it, there was a lounge and a small dining room. But it would be three hours before the evening meal would be served.

"Let's have a drink ... and wait in the lounge for dinner," Ben suggested.

"Okay, fellows," Al agreed. "But just one drink apiece. We're back in the air tomorrow, you know. Agreed?"

Past French colonial domination of Dakar and West Africa left one good legacy. The restaurant served excellent food, presented with a flair and served with outstanding French wine. Al relented, suggesting that the wine didn't constitute more drinks, but merely the meal beverage. The crew dined comfortably, with Ben remarking, "This sure beats having to open up one of those K-ration boxes." Good food, wine and that remark brought forth the first laughter the crew enjoyed since leaving home.

"Tomorrow, fellows, we've got to cross the South Atlantic. It's another 2200 miles to Recife on Brazil's east coast. While the distance isn't a problem, the weather may well be this time of year," Al mentioned, bringing reality back upon his crew. We've got to find out where the airline people get their weather reports. I really don't want to head out over the water without some knowledge of what we can expect."

Across the room sat an airline crew, enjoying their meal. Al got up and walked over. He addressed the gentleman wearing four stripes on his sleeve, the sign of an airline captain. He introduced himself and asked if they spoke English. That elicited a polite laugh and response that Al hadn't expected. "Yes, colonel," the captain responded in perfect English. We're with BOAC, and quite fluent in English, sir. May we be of service?" The captain recognized Al's rank insignia on his flight suit shoulders.

"Sorry, captain. I didn't see the BOAC wings on your jacket. Of course you speak English, and probably better than I do."

Al was quickly introduced to the members of the BOAC crew, and soon invited to sit with them. Al pulled over a chair from the next table and explained that his own crew was trying to get back to the USA in their B-58 bomber. He needed to know what the weather was expected to be over the South Atlantic and wished to know the best place to get briefed. The captain explained to Al that BOAC had its own local office at the airport with radio teletype weather reports. They invited Al and his crew to drop by the office in the morning. In fact, the captain said he would make a call to be sure that Recife, Brazil data would be included.

Fred and Ben waited for Al to return to the table, but Al lingered with the BOAC crew for an extended period. After more than half an hour, Al returned to the table and explained what he'd learned from the BOAC crew. If Al's boys could be in the lobby at 0630 hours tomorrow, they could ride to the BOAC office in the crew bus. "0630? C'mon, Al" Ben protested. "That's three in the morning, Recife time."

"Okay .. okay. I guess there's not rush. Let's leave here at 0800. Is that better? I'll ask the front desk about transportation from the hotel in the morning."

Al left and headed for the front desk, while Ben turned to Fred, saying with a smile, "That's still only 0500 Recife time."

  At 8:30 the next morning, the walked into the BOAC office at the airport. Two employees on duty greeted the crew warmly, saying that one of their captains alerted them to the Yanks in town. "Here's the latest weather dispatch from our company forecast center," the man at the counter offered. "Looks like you'll have decent landing weather at Recife, but it'll be a bumpy ride across the Atlantic. Winds at 25,000 feet should be SSE at 45 knots, switching to SSW after the halfway point."

"Thanks. Looks like we can make it with our fuel, and with Recife forecast to be above minimums, we won't need an alternate," Al responded. "We sure have gotten much appreciated help from you BOAC fellows," he added. "Don't know how we'd have managed without it."

Out on the flightline, the crew performed a walk-around inspection of 075. "We'll have to use that last starter cartridge, Ben," Al remarked. These guys do use air carts. Why don't you go ahead and install it in the #4 engine while I complete the exterior inspection."

Soon the crew climbed aboard, strapped in and prepared for engine start. When Al threw the switch to fire the starter cartridge, nothing happened. No plume of black smoke, no rush of hot gasses to crank over the engine. Nothing.

"Shit," he exclaimed. "Well that's bad news. The damn thing is a dud. Now what do we do. No more cartridges and no air carts." The crew sat there for a few moments, unsure about what they could do.

"Why don't we radio or send a message to Torrejon and ask someone up there to fly down some cartridges. Nope, that won't work. They didn't have any. You're right. We've got a problem."

Al sat there in the cockpit, looking out at the Senegalese small jets in front of them. An idea, a wild idea came to him. "I think we may just have a solution, guys. I think I know how we can get one engine started and then cross-feed to get the others going."

"Yeah? How?" Ben inquired. "Should we have Fred blow into the #4 intake?"

"Not exactly, but there might be a way to get some airflow into it with a different kind of blower. If we can get the engine up to 10% RPM or more, I can get it started."

"What blower?" Ben retorted.

  "I'm looking at one right across the parking area from us. These Senegalese air force guys have a couple F-86's. What if we could get one of them fired up and blow the engine exhaust right into the #4 inlet. That might do it. What do ya think, Ben?"

"Hey, why not? It's worth a try, but how are you going to talk them into it? I'm not going to. Let's see if our friendly airport manager can."

Al turned on the battery switches and got on the radio to the tower. He requested the airport manager come out to help solve a problem. The tower agreed to pass the message.

In about 15 minutes the manager's sedan, with official flag, appeared next to 075. The manager came over and asked what the problem was. Al explained and then described his proposed solution. The manager was intrigued by the novel idea and agreed to ask the Senegalese air forces for help. Al requested that the manager act as translator, because none of 075's crew spoke French.

Soon a couple jeeps, loaded with Senegalese air force men in uniform drove up. The manager explained the problem and Al's idea. A sergeant from one of the jeeps nodded his head in understanding, possibly in agreement that the idea might work. The sergeant walked over to 075's #4 engine, placed his hand on his chest at the engine's inlet height and walked across to the closest F-86, still keeping his hand on his chest to mark the inlet height.

"Oh oh," Ben remarked, "Looks like the F-86's exhaust doesn't line up with the #4 inlet. Somehow they'll need to lower the tail of the F-86 by about two feet."

The sergeant walked back and spoke to the airport manager. The men chatted in French for several minutes and then both nodded their heads, while looking first at 075 and then at the F-86.

"What's he saying?" Al asked. "Does the sergeant think it'll work?"

"Yes, he does," the manager replied. "But he's decided that they have to put blocks under the fighter's nose wheel to lower the tail enough to line up with your engine. He thinks that ought to do it."

"By damn, you're right. Tell him I think it's a great idea, but he'll have to bring that F-86 over to within ten feet of our #4 engine inlet," Al explained.

The manager spoke again to the sergeant, and once more heads nodded and turned back and forth between 075 and the F-86. The sergeant shouted orders to the other uniformed men with him, and quickly the group pushed the F-86 into position in front of 075. Then one of the jeeps roared off toward an hangar, returning in a few minutes with blocks of wood piled in the back. Right behind the jeep came a larger vehicle with a wrecker-like crane and hoist. It was a WW2 vintage army 6-by-6 heavy truck, modified for wrecker duty. The huge desert camouflage-painted truck lumbered across the ramp, belching black smoke.

When the men got the F-86 into the right position, lined up in front of 075, the placed wheel chocks against the fighter's main tires. Then they attached a large cargo strap around the forward fuselage. A hook on the hoist was soon attached to the strap, and the truck's winch began to lift the F-86's nose into the air. When the nose gear wheel began to lift, the sergeant came up to 075 to see how much lifting they'd need. He shouted orders to his men. When the nose wheel was about two feet off the ground, the sergeant ordered wooden blocks placed under the wheel. Now the F-86 rested with it's nose elevated, tail lowered and perfectly aligned with 075's #4 engine inlet.

Ben and Fred were amazed and amused by the skilled and organized efforts of these Senegalese troops. It was almost as if they'd done this before, but they hadn't. In fact, Al had only heard about something like this being done once before, in Korea many years ago. It wasn't his idea alone, just a current application of the technique he'd vaguely remembered.

The sergeant came over to where Al and the manager were standing. They chatted for a few minutes and then the manager explained, "The sergeant will have one of his men get into the F-86 and start the engine, when you say you're ready. We'll have to agree on some hand signals to indicate how much throttle you want the F-86 to use. They'll have to keep the wrecker out front, with strap attached, to preclude the F-86 moving forward, depending on how much thrust you'll need. After several minutes of discussion, Al and the Sergeant worked out a hand signal system.

"Okay guys, let's give it a try. All aboard," Al announced.

When Al was ready, he gave the hand signal for the F-86 to start its jet engine. In the idle thrust setting, that was not enough to get the #4 turning fast enough, so Al gave the next signal for higher thrust. In a few seconds 075 shook and rattled with the exhaust of the F-86 blowing hard against her. Gradually the #4 engine came up to speed, sufficient for Al to get it started. Then he gave the hand signal for the F-86 to cut it's engine and soon the Senegalese troops removed the nose wheel blocks from the F-86 and towed it clear of 075.

When everyone was out of the way, Al started the other three engines and waved at the ground troops standing nearby. Al saluted. The men waved. Mission accomplished. The B-58 was back to life, thanks to some ingenuity, skill and hard work by the Senegalese team.

Al called the control tower, advising them that 075 was ready to taxi. "Please pass along our great appreciation for the efforts of your airport manager and the Senegalese air force. They made history today by starting a B-58 in a way never done before. Thanks much."

Chapter Eleven - West to Brazil

"That was amazing," Fred exclaimed. "I never would have believed we could get the engines up and running that way. Absolutely amazing."

"Well, it's not entirely my idea. I heard about the thing being tried once in Korea. In fact, it was those Senegalese Korean War vintage F-86's that made me think of it. But you're right. It is amazing and those guys were terrific."

The tower cleared 075 to taxi for takeoff. Soon the B-58 roared off into the graying skies and headed west southwest on a climbout to 28,000 feet. It was time to cross the south Atlantic and head for Recife, Brazil. Flight time would be about three hours and 30 minutes.

"Well, Al. I sure as hell hope that they've got an air cart in Recife. We'll probably not find any more F-86's to get us going," Ben declared shortly after level off at cruising altitude.

"Turn left to 220 heading," Fred requested. "I'm having trouble with the Doppler out here over water, Al. Our drift angle and groundspeed readouts are intermittent, but that's no unusual. We can always adjust after making landfall."

"And how are we going to do that? You've got no radar to see the coastline. I only hope that I can make it out from up here, or the radio navigation aids at Recife are working," Al responded, and then added, "What's our ETA?"

Fred did some more calculating and responded, "Well, if I've "guess-timated" the groundspeed close, we'll be there at 1000 hours local. That's 1300 Zulu."

Ben chimed in, "And that'll leave us just under an hour's fuel remaining on arrival, Al."

About 60 miles out of Recife, Al contacted the tower for landing instructions. In English heavily accented with Portuguese, the tower operator advised that the winds were southwest at 15 knots, altimeter setting 29.91 and visibility 30 miles. The weather was absolutely beautiful, though the temperature at 10:00 A.M. local time was already 90 degrees (F). Al knew that the airport elevation was just eight feet above sea level and that 9000 feet of runway would greet them. Recife, the capital city of the northeastern district of Brazil, is known as the Venice of the area. Waterways and the ocean dominate the city, making it a beautiful place to visit.

With that much wind, right down the runway, Al didn't need the drag chute. The roll-out after landing took all but 1500 feet of the pavement available. The controller advised Al to park on the ramp below the tower, next to two Brazilian airliners.

"Well, guys .. we 're on the right side of the pond now," Al remarked. Did either of you get a look out the windows before landing. This is a beautiful place."

"Yeah ... I saw lots of water. The Atlantic on the east and rivers or canals all over the west and throughout the city. Neat," Ben replied. "Better ask the tower if they have air carts, or we'll be in a pickle."

The tower operator said he'd call around to the various outfits using the airport, but when his report came back, the news wasn't good. No air starter carts could be found. He did report that they had jet fuel and truck were on the way.

"Guess we'd better refuel with the #4 kept running," Al advised. We'll probably not be on the ground more than a couple hours, so Fred let's start planning for the flight from here to Georgetown, British Guiana (modern name Guyana). That's another 2200 miles, isn't it? And Ben. I'm shutting down 1,2 and 3 only. So you can get down and see about center point refueling with the truck. I see one coming now."

"On my way, Al," Ben responded, his canopy opening and the roll-up ladder ready to go.

Fred dug out his charts for South America and began drawing lines for the next leg to Georgetown. It looked like it was 1800 miles to Georgetown, and 150 miles less to Paramaribo, Dutch Guiana (modern name Suriname), if they needed an alternate airfield because of weather.

Ben walked over to talk with the driver of the fuel truck, discovering that he didn't speak any English. But the truck carried a label indicating the tank contained jet fuel. On examining the fuel hose nozzle, Ben discovered that it wouldn't fit the aircraft's centerpoint receptacle, or even work with the adaptor they'd bright from Bengasi.

Al couldn't leave his cockpit as long as the #4 engine remained running, and they dared not shut it down. So Ben tossed the ladder cord up to Al and indicated that he should pull it up. Then Ben climbed up the ladder to consult with his pilot. "Looks like we've gotta refuel over the wing," Ben shouted over the noise of the engine. Al nodded in agreement and Ben descend the ladder, returning to the truck.

With hand signals and lost of gestures, Ben convinced the driver that he could refuel with the simple hose nozzle. A stepladder tied to the side of the truck would help Ben climb up onto the #1 engine and then the wing. So he and the driver pulled out the coiled hose. When Ben got up on the ladder the driver handed him the hose nozzle.

Soon Ben began opening the fuel tank caps and shoved the hose nozzle into the forward tank first. With a combination of improvised hand signals, Ben managed to get the driver to start pumping jet fuel. It too the better part of an hour for Ben to uncap the various tanks, fill them and then put the caps back in place. He was dead tired, soaking in perspiration and his flying suit wet all over from the exertion in that heat and humidity.

When the driver handed Ben the fuel voucher paperwork, Ben simply signed it "U.S. Government, Aircraft 075" and the date. That seemed to satisfy the driver.

Ben again climbed the ladder to Al's front cockpit, reporting what had been accomplished and explaining how he'd signed for $2500 worth of jet fuel. Al laughed and told Ben to get back into his own seat. It was time to take off once more.

When Al called for tower clearance, he explained to the controller what had transpired with the fuel purchase. "Tell the airport manager that the U.S. Government will pay for the fuel. If there are any questions, please contact the U.S. consulate office or nearest U.S. embassy."

The tower operator didn't object or ask for clarification, so Al assumed that the matter was closed. Taxi and takeoff clearance soon came and 075 headed back to the runway.

"Let's get out of here before some bureaucrat decides our method of payment doesn't conform to his rules," Al declared. Within five minutes 075 was again airborne and headed north northwest across Brazil, headed for British Guiana.

Chapter Twelve - North To Georgetown

On the climb out to 28,000 feet, Al suddenly announced that they had a problem. The #3 engine, inboard starboard side, was losing oil pressure. "Damn it ... we've gotta shut down #3, guys. We're losing oil pressure and I don't want it to seize or catch fire from overheated bearings. What's our best 3-engine cruise altitude, Ben?"

Quickly Ben got out his handbook and flipped to the emergency 3-engine charts. "At our weight, we'd better drop down to 23,000 feet, Al. But we should stay as near Mach 0.91 as we can using the remaining three. Total fuel flow shouldn't change much, 'cause what we don't burn with the dead engine will be offset with the extra power needed on the others."

Fred chimed in, saying," ETA to Georgetown is 1800 Zulu or 1400 local time."

Thirty-five minutes before arrival at Georgetown, Al called the tower at the airport. This was a busy commercial airport, served by several regional and international carriers. Al inquired not only about landing, but also whether or not there might be air starter carts and jet fuel available. Lady luck smiled on the crew as both necessary support elements were indeed there.

"Okay guys ... looks like Georgetown will be better than Recife was. They've got jet fuel and starter carts. So we can shut her down and spend the night," Al reported. "Local temperature is 87 degrees (F) and I suspect the humidity is about the same."

"It might be nice if they had oil for that #3 engine too," Ben added. "Assuming, of course, that the problem is that we are low on oil."

Once again the runway was long enough that Al didn't have to use the drag chute. Turning off the active runway, Al was told by the tower to park over near the British West Indies Airline (BWIA) buildings. He didn't know why they were sent there, but he complied. A couple of line boys were on hand to guide them into a parking spot next to a Boeing 707 and a smaller Fairchild turboprop airliner.

When the chocks slammed against the main gear, Al started shutting down the three still-running engines. And before Ben could grab his roll-up ladder, the lineboys were pushing an airline type stairway to the side of 075.

One of the line boys ran up the steps and leaned over to Al's cockpit. "Will you be spending the night, sir? And do you need jet fuel?"

Al responded in the affirmative to both questions, adding that the #3 engine was shut down in flight because of low oil pressure. The line boy indicated that he's have a fuel truck out right away ... and have his dispatcher call for an engine mechanic.

When the three crewmen got down onto the ramp, Al remarked, "Looks like these fellows are on the ball. They're sending over an engine mechanic to look at #3." Then Al and Ben started a walk-around inspection to see if anything else was wrong.

The engine mechanic came out and checked the #3. He reported to Al that there was plenty of oil, and suggested that perhaps the problem was either a bad pressure indicator, or they might have a plugged oil line somewhere.

BWIA would be happy to provide what service it could, but they had no maintenance documentation on J-79 engines. And then the mechanic asked how Al planned to pay for the services.

When Al explained that he'd simply sign for it and the U.S. Government would pay for the services and fuel, the mechanic hesitated. "Well, sir. You'll have to take that up with my supervisor. I can't do anything until we know if or how we're going to be paid." And with that, Al noted that the mechanic ran over to the fuel truck which had just arrived. A spirited conversation with the driver indicated that 075 wouldn't be refueled without somebody's authorization.

"Looks like bureaucracies are rampant down here too," Ben commented. "I wonder of we'll have to contact the U.S. Embassy to sort this out?"

"We should probably get in touch with them anyway," Al replied. "They can probably be of more help than just approving the fuel sale and mechanic's services."

From the BWIA office, Al called the U.S. Embassy and explained who he was, where he's been and what he needed. The ambassador himself soon came on the line, a Mr. Harold Frost. He greeted Al warmly on the telephone and indicated that an embassy car would be there shortly to pick up the three crewmen. Al, however, reminded the ambassador that he needed someone to tell the fuel service company that a U.S. government payment voucher would be honored, for Al explained that it's important to fill the tanks to preclude water condensation in the fuel system.

The ambassador was sympathetic, but refused to confirm to the BWIA people that the government would pay the bill, especially since he thought the charges would go to the State Department and not Defense. Nothing Al could say over the phone would dissuade the ambassador.

"Look," Al said to the BWIA manager, I'll put the fuel on my personal credit card and we'll sort it out later. Okay?" The manager agreed and the fuel truck returned to 075 on the ramp. Ben showed the driver where the center point receptacle was and with the addition of the adaptor from Bengasi the job was done.

About the time that the fueling ended, a black Cadillac sedan drove up, complete with U.S. flag on the front bumper. An assistant to the ambassador introduced himself and invited the crew to come to the embassy, where quarters would be furnished. The crew closed the canopies and jumped into the car.

On arrival at the elegant Mediterranean style embassy complex, Al and his crewmates were taken to the guest house some 100 yards from the main building. The assistant guided them to the guest facilities and made sure they were comfortable before departing.

"Nice digs," Fred remarked after exploring the small apartment. "I wonder what VIP's stayed here last."

"Who cares," Ben commented. I'm headed for a shower and a shave. This humidity and heat has made me ripe, though I hate to put this grungy flying suit back on."

No sooner had Ben made that remark than there came a knock on the door. A maid in a domestic's uniform stepped in, carrying a bowl of tropical fruit, two bottles of soda water and three bathrobes. She said that she would be happy to take any clothes they wanted washed and have them back shortly after dinner. All three men nodded and said thank you in unison.

As a threesome they disappeared into the bedroom for a few minutes and came out wearing only their new bathrobes and combat boots. The maid was polite enough not to laugh, but the three men were quite a sight. They handed their clothes to her with thanks. But they could tell that she was already laughing as she started out the door with an armload of dirty laundry.

Ben headed for the tub and relished the chance to clean up and then shave. Fred and Al did the same. In about an hour the telephone rang and Al answered it. It was the ambassador, inviting them to join him for dinner. Al explained that all three were in just their bathrobes and felt they were not properly dressed for dinner. He explained that the maid had just taken their clothes for laundering. The ambassador laughed and said that a steward would bring them some Hawaiian-type shirts and cotton shorts. When Al further explained that they were wearing their combat boots, that begot further laughter and a reply that sandals would also be furnished. Dinner at 7:30, the ambassador ended.

  Ambassador Frost and his wife greeted the men as they arrived in the foyer of the main building. Several aides and staff members were also there, so dinner turned out to be a near formal sit down for ten people, Al and crew being the guests of honor.

Much of the discussion around the table dealt with the tragic, deadly and short conflict just concluded. The ambassador's wife was quite horror-stricken and sympathetic when the men explained that their base, families and everything they'd known was blasted just after they took off of their retaliatory mission. Some talk continued about what U.S. cities and military installations had been struck, wholly lost or just partly damaged.

When the conversation got to the journey the crew had taken to get to Georgetown, their experiences and problems, the ambassador's staff actually took notes. That seemed like a good time for Al to mention once more that every place else they had been all it took was declaration that the U.S. government would pay their bills for them to get what they needed. Al didn't understand why that was a problem here. The ambassador was clearly discomforted by Al's words. He responded by vaguely saying that he would try to contact Department of Defense (DOD) officials the next day.

That prompted Al to inquire where those DOD officials might be and could he talk with them as well. He explained he had been unable to contact the general aboard the Looking Glass airborne command post, adding that the only word he had was that the general was in Texas.

After a sumptuous meal, complete with brandy and cigars after dessert, Al was escorted by an aide to the secure communications room. There a radioman attempted to establish a link with State department official in an underground facility just outside Washington, DC. Al asked if they could put the senior military representative on the line. Soon a Colonel Bradbury answered and Al was handed a radio telephone handset.

"Colonel Bradbury? This is Air Force colonel Spivens. Is this link secure?" Al began. When assured it was, Al explained who he was, where he'd been and generally what their situation was. Then Al asked Bradbury to send the ambassador a message affirming that the U.S. government would pay the costs of servicing and fueling their aircraft, which was returning to the states. The colonel agreed and then Al continued, "Look. We're headed for Carswell AFB in Fort Worth, Texas. We expect to be there in two or three days. We need to get word to any SAC officials left to explain where we are, where we're headed and get orders about what to do after getting to Fort Worth, if we make it. We have a flyable aircraft, but with just three engines."

Bradbury took the message and said he'd get back to Al the next morning. Then he asked to speak to the assistant ambassador standing there in the room. He affirmed to the assistant that the government would indeed cover the crew's costs of getting the airplane serviced and on its way home. He further advised the assistant that a written confirmation would be radio telefaxed within the hour.

"Anything else, Colonel Spivens?" the assistant concluded.

"No, thank you. That's about it until we hear from Washington, DOD or SAC, wherever they've gotten to." Al and the assistant thanked the radioman and returned to the dining room. Fred and Ben were sitting there enjoying cognac and cigars with the ambassador. He had been greatly intrigued by their accounts of the hedge-hopping trip they'd made from Turkey to Georgetown.

The assistant leaned over to whisper in the ambassador's ear, and Al could tell that it was confirmation of Washington's willingness to pay the expenses at the airport. The ambassador just nodded, affirming his assistant's words, but said nothing to Al.

"Well, I suppose you gentlemen are quite tired. This has been a busy day for you, flying all the way from Africa to Brazil and then up here. Why don't we call it a night then. We'll see what's new in the morning. You can breakfast in your quarters, if you like ... or here in the dining room at 0900 hours, the military time I'm told."

"Here in the dining room would be fine. And thank you, Mr. Ambassador. We appreciate your hospitality and helpfulness. 0900 it is," Al returned. His crewmates repeated the thank you's and stood to leave.

Walking back across the embassy compound, under a starlit tropical sky, the crew discussed their options for the next few days. Al was confident that they could make it on just three engines, if they had to. They could always get added thrust for takeoff by using one or more afterburners on the remaining three engines. And, as to route options, there were several. They could easily make it to Bermuda and then stateside, or Puerto Rico or Nicaragua and then to the states. It was also possible to reach Guantanamo, near Havana, and then Florida.

"We're supposed to get word from Colonel Bradbury, military liaison at the State Department's underground bunker near Washington. He might have word from what's left of SAC. We'll get some shut eye and see what the morning brings," Al suggested.

"You know, I think I could get to like a place like this," Ben remarked, standing on the porch of their guest cottage. One last look out at the night sky, in the balmy tropical air, appealed to him.

"This peaceful place, a kind of tropical paradise, seems a million miles away from the mess we'll find two days from now," Fred added. "Kinda makes you realize that there is a better way to live. No ICBMs, no bombers, no nuclear submarines and no threats of war around here. Tell me again, Al, why it's so damn important to get our airplane back to the states?"

"You know damn well why," Al replied. "They want to get it back into the inventory, re-load it and have it ready to go on another war mission. SAC bombers were meant to be re-used, you know."

"Somehow, I don't think that's gonna happen," Ben offered. "The initial exchange of nukes was kinda like the two-by-four used to get the attention of the mule. It probably woke up both governments to the stupidity of nuclear war. They'll be licking their wounds for some time, I suspect. No. We'll probably not re-cycle these bombers, for a long time."

"You guys go on in," Fred urged, as he sat down on the porch step. "I think I'll just sit here a while and enjoy this peaceful night. "See you in the morning."

Gentle night breezes wafted across the embassy compound, causing the palm trees to sway lazily. The stars were bright. Though there was no moon, it was far from pitch black. This was an ideal time for Fred to just sit there, leaning against a portico column and contemplate what lay ahead. But in moments tears began to run down his cheeks, in his continued grieving for his lost family. He felt so alone. What was he going to do?

The crew didn't stir until 8:30 that morning. Then Al remembered the ambassador mentioned that breakfast would be served at 9:OO o'clock. Suddenly, the three scurried to get washed, shaved and dressed. Their flight suits, underwear and socks were found neatly piled in a chair next to a table. Quickly they dressed and headed for the main building and breakfast.

The ambassador's assistant met them as they crossed the foyer for the dining room. He handed Al a teletype message. It was from Bradbury and read, "PROCEED TO RAMEY IN PUERTO RICO. SAC BASE THERE SURVIVED. LOOKING GLASS CREW AT BARKSDALE. YOUR FINAL DESTINATION IS CARSWELL. GOOD LUCK. BRADBURY."

Al showed the message to his colleagues, saying, "Guess that solves one problem. We'll stop at Ramey and then it's on to Carswell. The SAC boys at Ramey can fill us in on what's what."

"Well, depending on what we have to do at Ramey, we could be in Texas by nightfall," Fred commented. "I just hope the folks in Puerto Rico don't delay us."

  Soon Ambassador Frost came into the dining room and the meal was served. "Mrs. Frost won't be joining us, gentlemen. She's already gone into town for a charity function with the wives of the city fathers. She is more of a morning person than I am."

The breakfast was quite a feast. Everything from fresh fruit to cereal to ham, eggs and even grits was served. It was the first big breakfast the crew had enjoyed in some time. Conversation soon turned to the crew's planned departure before noon, and their plans to stop in Puerto Rico enroute to Texas.

"Well," the ambassador began, "you boys will be back in the states tonight, I expect. Fort Worth is one of my favorite places. Maybe that's because it's Mrs. Frost's home town. You can have their winter ice storms, but most of the time it's a delightful place."

"Ice storms?" Fred responded. "Living in a place like Georgetown here, how could you even think of ice storms? I think I could learn to like it here. This must be ranked as a favorite state department posting."

"It's nice all right," Frost replied, "but it's too quiet for me. There's not enough action."

"Action is what I don't want, sir. The quiet peaceful life here would suit me fine," Fred responded.

It was well after 10:00 o'clock by the time breakfast was over, farewells were spoken and the ambassador's assistant drove them out to the airport. Their airplane was wet with morning dew, causing Ben to remark, "Good thing we closed those canopies. Otherwise, we'd be sitting on wet seat cushions."

A pickup truck with a BWIA logo on the door came across to where 075 was parked. The driver got out and handed Al some papers. It was the credit card forms signed yesterday for the jet fuel. "Your credit card won't be charged, sir. The Ambassador's office called and said that your government would pay the bill. We didn't process the charges to your account. Are you about ready to start engines? And do you still want our mechanic to work on the #3?"

Al thought long and hard about whether or not to have the airline's engine mechanic tear into an engine he was not familiar with. Then he replied," No. I think we'll be able to make it to Puerto Rico on the other three. We're pretty light and it's a short hop. Thanks anyway, but we'll just go with what we've got. You fellows can bring over the air cart now, if you would, please."

Soon 075 sprang to life with three of its four engines spewing exhaust fumes across the ramp. Tower clearance for taxi and takeoff came through without delay. Al lined the plane down the runway and set power. This time he'd use the afterburner on one engine, #2, to aid in acceleration to take-off speed. But just as soon as they got established in the climbout, he reduced the throttle to save fuel. Three engines were sufficient to get them to Puerto Rico.

"Heading 340, Al," Fred advised, as they headed north over the water and the Lesser Antilles island chain. "We'll be on the ground by 1300 local time."

The flight went smoothly. Al marveled at the beauty of the Caribbean passing below. A few puffy cumulous clouds lined up along the chain of popular tourist resort islands. A few smoke trails from ocean vessels, freighters or perhaps even cruise ships, plying ancient trade routes were seen clearly, even from 30,000 feet.

About 75 miles out, radio contact was established with Ramey tower. Surprisingly, the tower demanded that 075 authenticate using the code books, before granting them permission to descend for landing. "Who in the hell did they think we were?" Al muttered in frustration. "The Russians?"

Chapter Thirteen - First U.S. Landing

Touchdown and landing went smoothly, and with over 12,000 feet of runway Al didn't use the drag chute. Tower cleared them to park next to two KC-135 tankers in front of a huge maintenance hangar. Ground crewmen met them and guided them into the designated parking spot.

"Any sign of an access stand?" Ben inquired, as they completed the After Landing Checklist and shut down the engines."

"Nope .. just two guys about to put wheel chocks in place," Al responded.

Ben opened his canopy and once more unfurled his trusty roll-up ladder. In seconds he was on the ground and tossing the rope to Al. Al descended and in turn tossed the ladder rope to Fred. By the time that all three were on the tarmac and performing an exterior check of their plane, a blue Air Force van, more like a bread truck, came up. The master sergeant inside slid the right side door opened and asked if the B-58 needed servicing. Al shouted yes and the sergeant grabbed a microphone to call for a fuel truck. "Fill her up with JP-4," Al added, and watch it or you'll tilt her back on here tail. Better yet, I'll stay here and manage the fueling so that doesn't happen."

Fred and Ben got into the van and were whisked away to the Command Post, to be joined there soon by Al. The van quickly returned to the flight line, just four blocks away.

Ben asked the guard on duty at the entrance where the intelligence shop was. The guard casually pointed to a hallway on his right, "Room 124, sir. Ask for Major Allen." Ben nodded and headed down the hall.

"Here it is. Room 244," Ben confirmed. He turned the knob and entered an office with several men seated within. "Looking for Major Allen," Ben declared.

Soon a fellow came out of a back office and announced that he was Major Allen. "Can I help you boys?"

"We're here to debrief somebody in SAC intelligence on our B-58 mission out of Indiana. You guys interested?" Allen nodded and waved his hand toward some tables and chairs off to one side of the main room. Ben explained that their pilot would be along momentarily. He was seeing to the refueling of their aircraft.

"So .. you guys are just getting back from your alert mission over Russia, eh? Well, there are lots of forms for you to fill out. I'll just go get them."

"Wait up, major," Ben abruptly responded. We don't do forms. You get your intelligence clerks or whatever, and we'll tell you what we know. That's the way it works. Understand?"

The major was taken aback by Ben's directness and seeming haughtiness. But he sheepishly complied and scurried to get a couple of sergeants and a lieutenant to help him.

"You fellows get your debriefing forms ready. We tell you what you need to know and then you write it down. Are we clear on the procedure here? And we'll wait until our AC gets here. Where's the coffee?"

Ben was really pushing, but his immediate assessment of the way this intelligence shop was run didn't impress him. The major appeared to Ben and Fred to be one of those typical bureaucrats that deemed forms more important than information.

Al soon entered the room and sat down, just as the major fanned out a whole ream of forms to be completed. "Who's in charge here?" Al inquired.

"Uh, well sir, that would be Lieutenant Colonel Wolfram," the major answered. "Shall I get him for you?"

"Is that Charlie Wolfram?" Al continued.

"Why yes, sir. Do you know him?"

"Yep .. if it's the same Wolfram that used to be in the B-47 program in Florida."

In a few minutes, the door opened and an officer came over to the table where the crew sat. "Al? .. Al Spivens? You old son of a gun," the lieutenant colonel enthusiastically greeted. "What in the hell are you doing here? Boy, it's great to see you."

Al introduced Wolfram to his crewmates and said, "It's a long story, Charlie. Maybe you better have your guys write some of this down. You ain't gonna believe it."

Charlie Wolfram sat there entranced by Al's account of everything, from the response to the klaxon back in the simulator building to the last night in Georgetown. Furiously, the sergeants and the lieutenant took notes, filled out forms and tried to keep up with the conversations and the account of the B-58 mission.

"Wow .. what a story," Wolfram declared. "You fellows have had quite a time these past ten days or so. And you say you're headed for Carswell next?"

"That's the plan, Charlie. So tell us, what's left of SAC and what do you think they'll have us do when we get stateside?"

"The first part I can give you a little on, but I haven't a clue what they'll do with you guys when you get to Texas."

Wolfram went on to explain what he knew of SAC's remaining bases and resources. Of the 450 B-52's there were just 65 remaining. Most were lost on the ground before they could get aloft. He knew of only a half dozen or so B-58's that had made it back, but there may be more coming. Half of the ICBM sites survived, and perhaps a quarter were still armed and ready to go, if needed. But SAC headquarters was gone, as was the Pentagon itself.

"What about bases that survived?" Al pressed.

"Well, let's see. There's probably eight or ten left, SAC bases, that is. Most of the non-SAC bases are still there, untouched. You just have heard already that Carswell is okay, right?"

"Yes, we got the word while we were in Spain, and the military liaison at the State department confirmed it. That's where we going next, perhaps this afternoon."

"No way, my friend. You're staying here tonight ... at least until you've had some of Janet's cooking."

Al looked at his crewmates, saying, "You guys have to have some of Janet's cooking. That gal is a marvel in the kitchen. How about we stay at least overnight? Okay?"

"Okay .. we'll stay. But give Janet some warning that she's got dinner guests coming. Don't spring us on her unannounced, or she'll kill you."

"Guess you're right. Okay I'll do that." And then Wolfram turned to Major Allen, "Did you fellows get all the debriefing information you need from this crew?"

Allen responded that they have what they needed and more. He said that they'd get it typed up and sent off to Barksdale in the next dispatch pouch.

"Barksdale? Charlie?" Al inquired.

"Yeah. That's where SAC headquarters is now, or what's left of it. Second Air Force just became Headquarters SAC two days ago. And Langley is still TAC .... and Scott still MAC. But our defenses are considerable smaller than they were three weeks ago. The powers that be are scrambling to take inventory, get organized and tell Congress where we stand. Oh, did you hear? Congress is now meeting in Saint Louis. Most of the members were back home politic-ing when the war started. Washington, D.C. was leveled, but the Congress pretty much survived. They've taken over the convention center and are in session as we speak. Yeah, you guys have a lot of catching up to do."

"We sure do," Al agreed. "Oh, one more thing Charlie. Do you guys have any engine mechanics who can fix our J-79?

We lost oil pressure between Recife and Georgetown, but the oil quantity is fine."

"I'll check with the DCM (Deputy Commander for Maintenance), Al. Look, why don't you guys get settled in the VOQ. Here's my car keys. You take it and come by the house whenever you can .... but not before 3:00 o'clock. I've still gotta call Janet." Wolfram wrote down his on-base address and phone number, handing a note to Al. "Gotta run. The DCO (Deputy Commander for Operations) awaits. Meetings, you know. That hasn't changed."

Al got directions to the VOQ from Major Allen, who said he'd call them there about the engine. "Thank you, gentlemen," he added as the crew left. Allen never suspected that these intruders would be friends of his boss, or treated like VIP's. He'd learn.

  Just as the crew opened the doors to their VOQ rooms, two connected bedrooms, the phone on a small desk rang. Al picked up the receiver. It was the maintenance supervisor, calling from his mobile van on the flight line.

"What seemed to be the problem with your B-58 engine, Colonel? We don't get to see J-79's very often, but we do have some manuals on 'em."

That last remark didn't give Al a sense of overwhelming confidence that the engine shop at Ramey could fix anything. "It's the oil pressure reading on #3. It dropped to zero, yet there's oil in the reservoir. I shut her down so we wouldn't ruin the bearings or cause a fire."

"You want us to have a look, sir? How long will you be here at Ramey?"

"Just tonight. We're headed for Carswell around noon tomorrow. Sure, have a look, but don't tear her down without talking to me first. We can make it to Fort Worth on three."

Al gave the supervisor the telephone number of Charlie Wolfram and said they'd be there throughout the evening, but back in the VOQ after that.

"Okay, sir. We'll see what we can find out and call you before we do anything serious."

"Well? What are they going to do? Can they work on J-79's?" Ben asked.

"Probably not. They claim to have the maintenance manuals and will look her over. They'll call me before tearing things apart."

That evening at Wolfram's house, Janet really prepared a delightful meal. Italian was her specialty and the lasagna was superb. The five adults and three of Charlie's children had a grand time. That get together was a beneficial tonic for the crew's spirits, though at times it made them miss their own lost families even more.

"Charlie, you're one lucky fellow," Al remarked. "It's hard to believe that three weeks ago we could have done the same for you. Now that's gone forever." Al's crewmates suddenly went quiet ... not speaking for several minutes, until Janet said, "C'mon guys. You haven't tried my home made spumone ice cream. You know this is impossible to get down here in Puerto Rico. You have to make it yourself."

Fred volunteered to help Janet do the dishes. Ben was dragged off to the children's bedrooms to see their stuff. So Al and Charlie say on the patio catching up on old times.

  "You know, Al, after you left Florida for the B-58 program, I got sent here. It was totally unexpected, but they decided I had to have an overseas assignment and I couldn't have picked a better one if I tried. We have really enjoyed it here. The climate isn't all that different from Tampa, and the cost of living is a helluva lot less. I'm actually saving some money now. That's a first."

"Tell me more, Charlie, about what happened in the war. How long did it last, what is our status now, and what survived?" Al asked, needing to know more.

"Well, from down here all we get are belated intelligence reports and some television news. The Soviets musta decided that Ramey was not a priority target. It seems that the Ruskies started it. Why, we don't really know. Our forces retaliated, starting with the first hit which took out Offutt and Omaha. ICBM's were launched almost immediately, followed in minutes by launch of the airplanes, like you guys. Most of the aircraft inventory was caught on the ground. Obviously, you fellows got off, but many more didn't.

Right now we've got about a quarter to a third of the SAC strength we used to have. And intelligence reports indicate that the Soviets have about the same percentage, mostly in ICBM's. Their air forces and air defense systems are all but gone. The British took five hits, mostly at bases where our forward bombers and nuclear capable fighters were stationed. No major British cities were hit.

Out tactical sir forces were pretty much untouched. Fighter bases and aircraft are still there, though support tankers from SAC kinda render them ineffective. They can't make it to Europe without tankers ... or as a minimum hopping in stages to Newfoundland, Iceland, Ireland and then to Germany. None of our Pacific resources were hit, even though we had 35 B-52's on Guam and some tankers in Okinawa.

Our naval forces are nearly in tact, only Norfolk got hit, and most of the fleet was not in port. Even Langley, Tactical Air Force headquarters wa spared. The Ruskies were clearly after strategic targets, government centers and SAC headquarters, of course.

It all was over, or at least a truce was called in 48 hours. Our country suffered a big blow, but it survived. Congress is back in session, and even the President has set up shop in St. Louis now, I'm told. There ain't no more Pentagon, so military decisions are not being made, except for what comes out of dispersed headquarters for each of the services. The Navy is running their show from San Diego, the Army from Fort Benning in Georgia and the Marines from North Carolina. The Air Force doesn't know what it's doing, but then that's just my opinion. I'm sure there are some generals at various bases that are convinced they've got everything under control. Who knows. I haven't seen any evidence of it from here, but the Ramey is a little out of the main loop."

"That's a pretty bleak picture, my friend," Al declared. "Sounds like we're in for months of uncertainty about what will happen next. Clearly the first priority in Saint Louis will probably be to keep the truce going and to assess the needs of civilians. I supposed that the various state National Guard units have been mobilized to help them."

"You're right. They have all been activated, at least to help out where they can. Some guard units have been moved to other states where resources were especially needed. In places like Oregon, Idaho and Nevada, for instance, the guard units wren't needed. But in Maryland, Nebraska, Illinois and Indiana they've augmented the surviving troops. The government has been overwhelmed by the need for emergency services, money and medical care," Charlie continued.

"I can well imagine. For my own crew, there's no reason for us to go back to Indiana, so we might as well call Fort Worth our new home. It'll take is a while to get used to that idea and come to grips with what we have left. Going on will not be easy."

"I can't begin to imagine what you fellows are going through. But life has to go on. You and your crew are still young, still in your mid-30's. You can still accomplish a lot, and goodness knows you've earned a second chance at life," Charlie added, not really sure what he should or could say.

Just then the doorbell rang. Charlie went to answer it and was surprised to see Colonel Brad Campbell, Wing Commander. "Hello, Charlie. Sorry to bother you, but I hear that you have a B-58 crew here that just returned from their mission. I wonder of I might come in and speask to them briefly."

"Come on in, sir ... by all means. Yes, they're here. The AC is an old friend of mine from B-47 days," Charlie urged.

Out on the patio, Colonel Campbell introduced himself to Al, while Charlie went to get the other two. Soon all five men were sitting around a glass-topped table. Janet came out, saying, "Please, don't get up gentlemen. Can O offer you something, Colonel? Ice tea, perhaps? Or something stronger?"

Campbell said that iced tea would be fine, and Janet left the men to resume their talking. "I just wanted to stop by and say well done to you fellows. I know if your own commander were still here he'd want to do the same. And besides I am curious about how it went for you and how you managed to wind up gere at Ramey."

"Thank you, sir. We appreciate your thoughtfulness. And yes, Colonel Briggs probably would have done the same thing, if her was still with us. But as you know, our base was hit early on, just as we were taking off, as a matter of fact. Things were pretty hectic."

"I can well imagine. You are indeed one of the few lucky ones to have made it out .... and all the way back home. We are thankful for that. So tell me, please .. how did it go and how did you wind up here at Ramey?"

Al and his crewmates went tbrough the whole story. A lot had happened to them in the past ten days or more. Campbell sat spellbound by the details and chronology of their adventures. He was especially interested when they mentioned landing at Dakar, saying that in WW2 he was stationed there as part of our occupation forces in French West Africa. So they spent several moments discussing what the place was like today. Campbell was surprised.

"Well fellows, if there is anything we here can do for you, just let me know. I already went by your airplane and we had some jet mechanics looking over the #3 engine. I havce to say, though, that we don't have a whole lot of experience with J-79's. In fact, we don't have any, but we'll do what we can. Are you planning on leaving with just three engines?"

"Yes, sir ... she flies just fine on three, especially since we're light without the lower pods. We can make it to Carswell, even if we can't get it fixed here."

"Well, look ... I'll have a staff car dropped off at the VOQ. Use it while you are here and just leave it at Base Operations when you go. Nice to have met you all," Campbell said, getting up to leave. "Thanks for the tea, Janet," he added as she came out on the patio. She escorted him to the front door.

"Seems like a nice guy," Al commented.

"Yes, he sure is. And he's very interested in his people. This visit was typical of his consideration. He's what I call a class act," Charlie responded.

It was getting on toward 10:00 P.M. and Al noticed Fred yawning. "Guess we'd better get over to the VOQ and get some shut eye. Tomorrow we've got to get to Carswell and see what's happening ... with them and to us." All three rose and thanked their hosts. Charlie and Janet walked them to the door. As the Al and his crew climbed into Charlie's car, he yelled after them, "Just leave the keys with the desk clerk at the VOQ. I'll get it tomorrow. And let me know what you wind up doing at Carswell, or wherever?"

Janet and Charlie stood on the front steps, waving good-bye. Ben commented, "Well that was a great evening. Nice friends you have there, Al. And that Janet is one heck of a cook. Mmmmmm .. boy that was good food."

Chapter Fourteen - Last Leg

The next morning the crew arose at dawn. Checking out of the VOQ, they picked up the keys to the Air Force staff car which awaited in the lot out front. Breakfast in the Officers Club was nothing special, greasy bacon and fried eggs served by a sleepy-eyed cook. Coffee was the important part.

Mechanics found nothing they could fix on the #3 engine of 075, sitting out on the ramp in the morning mist. Al called the maintenance supervisor on duty at that early hour, to inquire about what had been done or discovered about the engine's oil system. According to the notes left for the crew, the engine specialists couldn't determine the cause of the problem, though they did confirm that no damage was apparent.

"Well, guys ... looks like we've still got a three-engine airplane," Al reported after hanging up the telephone. Guess we'd better get a weather briefing and prepare our flight plan to Fort Worth. We'll head for Base Operations and leave this vehicle there. But first let's drive by the bird and see if they buttoned up all the cowling and panels."

An air starter cart and an electrical power unit stood next to the craft when they arrived. Somebody had even found a tall maintenance work platform which the crew could use to get up to their cockpits. "Looks like Colonel Campbell rattled a few cages," Ben commented. "Amazing what the troops can come up with when the Old Man prods them."

In Base Operations, Fred acquired some winds aloft information for the route to Texas. Al discovered that Texas was experiencing one of their famous winter ice storms, though the forecast hinted at improving weather and ceilings above minimums. The best alternate field, should Carswell be unsuitable, appeared to be Kelly Field in San Antonio.

Al filed his flight plan with the dispatcher, and the crew headed out to their plane. A small group of ground crewmen stood by, ready to get them going. The group of six was unusual, for two normally would have been more typical. The sergeant who greeted Al declared that the others were just curious about a B-58 and wanted to see her go.

Once more, Al's crew climbed in and prepared for flight, this one hopefully the final leg of their odyssey. Electrical power applied and soon surging high pressure air from the starter cart brought 075 to life. The three engines cranked up normaly and it was time to taxi out for takeoff.

Just as Al stopped 075 in the runup area at the end of the runway, the tower passed a message from Colonel Campbell wishing them good luck and a safe flight home. After engine runup and final checks, 075 turned onto the runway and quickly roared off into the morning sky. Al decided to make one circuit around the field as a salute to the folks who'd taken care of them and treated them so well. Then Al turned to the northwest and resumed their climb to cruise altitude.

"ETA Fort Worth is 1100 hours local time, Al" Fred reported, "assuming the weather remains as briefed."

Crossing the Gulf of Mexico and the Air Defense Identification Zone (ADIZ), the crew failed to set the day's code on their IFF(identification friend-or-foe transponder). That was because the codebook and authentication materials aboard were now out of date. They had no idea what codes to set, nor could then respond to voice challenges.

And sure enough, within minutes of crossing the ADIZ the received a broacdast message on the emergency radio frequency (guard channel). "Aircraft crossing ADIZ 120 miles southeast of Houston, This is Popcorn Control. Identifiy yourself. Authenticate Tango, Lima, Hotel."

"Hey Al, did you hear that? Wonder if it's us they're challenging," Ben inquired.

"Yeah .. I heard. Fred, where are we, exactly?"

"Oh, I'd judge us to be about 110 miles south east of the Houston area. Why?"

Ben interrupted saying, "Oh shit, Al. We can't authenticate their challenge. My code books expired two days ago."

"Uh huh ... well, I guess they'll classify us as hostile and send fighters to check us out. Hold on."

"Popcorn Control, this is Kingpin 75 enroute from Ramey to Carswell. What's the trouble?"

"Kingpin 75, this is Popcorn. Make a 45 degree right turn for identification, over."

"Roger, Popcorn. Turning right 45 degrees now and flashing the IFF for identification."

After a minute or two, Popcorn Control responded, "Kingpin 75 we have a target turning right to heading 360 degrees. Is that you? Confirm?"

"Roger, Popcorn. Kingpin 75 steady on heading 360."

"Kingpin 75, authenticate Tango, Lima, Hotel. Copy?"

"Popcorn, Kingpin 75 unable. Our code books have expired. Suggest you check with the tower at Ramey to confim our flight plan and identity."

"Negative, Kingpin 75. Unless you properly authenticate we will send fighters to escort you out of US airspace or shoot you down. Do you copy?"

"Popcorn ... Kingpin 75 is a B-58 returning to the states from our just-completed alert mission. We've been away from our Indiana base for two weeks, trying to get back home, damn it. Quit playing games and check with Ramey."

"Kingpin 75, we are vectoring two F-102's to intercept and ID your aircraft. Turn left 45 degrees now and resume course."

"Roger, Popcorn. Kingpin 75 returning to course."

"Al, I've got a tracking radar off to the right, about our 2:00 o'clock position. Range unknown," Ben reported.

"No sweat, guys. Once they make a positive visual ID on our aircraft type, it'll be okay."

"Here they come," Al soon declared. Two F-102's closing from 2:00 o'clock. Now they're turning to form up with us. Wonder what those boys are thinking now?"

Unheard by Al's crew was conversation going on between the two interceptors and their controller, communicating on a different frequency. "Popcorn, this is Killer 15. We've got a tally-ho on the target. It looks like a B-58, cruising level at angels 30. It's a friendly."

The lead F-102 poilot closed in formation with 075, barely 200 feet off the right wing. Al waved and saluted the fighter pilot carefully eyeing the B-58.

"Al, there's another on our left wing, and he's in damn close," Ben reported.

Al turned to his left and saw that he had interceptors on both sides. Soon Killer 15 called Al on the guard channel. "Hey there, Kingpin 75. You guys lost?"

"Negative Killer 15, we're just going home. Left Ramey a couple of hours ago. Been to Russia, you know?"

Killer 15 and his wingman broke off from 075 and pulled our ahead. "Where ya headed Kingpin 75?" one of the interceptors asked.

"Carswell, Fort Worth," Al responded. You guys going to escort us all the way?"

"Negative Kingpin, we're getting low on petrol. Suggest you contact Houston Air Route Traffic Control (ARTC) on 355.2 so they can give you clearance to Fort Worth. Adios. Killer 15 out."

"Thanks Killer 15, Wilco."

"Well, it looks as though some of our air defense system, is still working," Ben said.

"Yep. Give Houston a call Ben. Did you copy that frequency?"

"Sure did. I'll get our clearance."

"Houston Center, Kingpin 75, over."

Ben contacted the ARTC center and eventually got clearance direct from their present position to Fort Worth.

He also got a current weather report and was dismayed to hear that the ice storm lingered. It was forecast to be above IFR minumums, but runway conditions were poor.

"What's our ETA to Carswell, Fred?"

"Can't give that to you right now, Al. My navigation computer, the Doppler radar and just about everything has crapped out. You'll have to give me a fix off the Houston

VORTAC."

"Okay, Fred ... we're now on the 120 radial at 40 miles. Good enough?"

"Yup .. that make our Fort Worth ETA 1105 .. or 6," Fred replied.

  Approaching the Fort Worth area, Al called Approach Control for descent and landing clearance at Carswell. He received descent clearance, along with an advisory of icing reported above 2000 feet AGL. And he was told that the runway at Carswell was iced over. Not good.

"I'm calling the tower to get the latest runway report," Al decided.

"Carswell tower, this is Kingpin 75. We're a B-58 inbound with one engine out. Request runway conditions."

"Kingpin 75, Carswell Tower. Runway has patches of ice on the north end of runway 17. The first 2500 feet are icy, but the remainder is clear. What are your intentions?"

Al continued to fly the instrument approach path they were clear to fly by Approach Control, and was now passing through 15,000 feet. "Carswell, we're continuing our approach for landing. We intend to land long, touching down 2500 feet down the runway. That's room enough."

"Roger Kingpin 75, contact Approach Control and continue your approach."

Al advised Approach Control of their altitude, now 8000 feet and was advised to switch to GCA (Ground Control Approach radar) frequency for final landing instructions.

Al and Ben completed the Before Landing Checklist and moved all the fuel forward that they could to keep the tail from falling back on rollout.

GCA guided Al down to 2000 feet and passed along tower clearance for landing. At 1500 AGL, Al visually acquired the runway and decided to land long as planned. He could not tell where the ice began or ended, but elected to take the tower's report as valid. He flared for landing just after crossing the end of the runway and touched down just short of the 2500 foot marker. Fortunately, there was little wind and 075 didn't tend to slide sideways. Touchdown was on a patch of black ice, but that soon passed and the pavement remaining was just wet.

Al lowered the nose briefly, popped the drag chute and then pulled the nose up for aerodynamic drag. Runway markers whizzed by. Al lowered the nose and pushed hard on the brake pedals. With just 100 feet of runway left, 075 came to a stop.

"Whew, that was close," he muttered over the interphone.

"Carswell Tower, Kingpin 75 has landed. What's your ground control frequency?"

"Welcome home, Kingpin 75. Proceed to the parking area next to the tower. A Follow-Me truck will escort you to your parking spot. No need to switch to ground control. You are cleared to make a 180 from your present position and taxi back down the active. Turn right on the parallel as soon as you can."

"We made it, gang. Quite a trip, eh?"

"That's for sure," Fred replied. "And in just the nick of time. I have no equipment left at all."

"Welcome to the club, Fred. Three fuel gauges are out, my tail radar is dead and my butt is sore," Ben responded.

Al guided the plane toward the parking spot that the Follow-Me truck indicated. The driver jumped out and signalled Al when to stop. As he shut down the engines, he reached up onto the top of the instrument panel, patted it gently and said, "Thank you old girl. You may be tired and broken, but you brought us home. Thank you."

As the crew opened their canopies, they were delighted to see that a standard, B-58 type access stand was being pushed along side. "Aw Gee," Ben commented. "And I was hoping to use my trusty roll-up ladder."

And just for the hell of it, he grabbed that ladder and unfurled it down the opposite side to the entry stand. Then he descended his ladder, while his crewmates came down the stairs on the other side.

A ground crewman watch in disbelief and amusement. First, he had never seen a B-58 crewman use such a ladder, and secondly, he wondered why would anyone do that instead of coming down the access stand like normal people.

Al just grinned at the ground crewman and said, "He always does things the hard way."

 Chapter Fifteen - Assessment

"Hey look, Al," Ben urged. " Across the runway on the General Dynamic ramp. There are four B-58's over there, though one of 'em looks sick. Half of it's vertical stabilizer is missing. Looks like somebody too a hit."

"Yeah .. looks like it," Al replied, scanning around the ramp and parking areas on the Air Force side of that joint-use airfield. "And down there, I count nine B-52'a and a couple KC-135's. Wonder if they are from here of strangers like us."

A blue USAF staff car approached and pulled up in front of 075. A captain at the wheel said, "Jump in gentlemen. I'll give you a life to debriefing."

"What? More debriefing. C'mon now," Fred protested.

"Get in guys, at least we can give maintenance a rundown on what needs fixing," Al insisted.

"Yeah ... just about everything," Fred came back.

The captain dropped the crew off at a building behind Base Operations, telling them that the debriefing room was in the door on the right. The crew grabbed their gear, including Ben's roll-up ladder, and trudged into the building.

A large room with dozens of folding banquet tables greeted them. At three of the tables sat several officers and sergeants. Signs on the tables identified the functions of each group. Al's crew headed for the one with a "Maintenance Debriefing" sign. It was manned by three senior sergeants and a captain.

"Anything cool to drink around here, Sarge?" Ben asked.

"Sure major. Over there, across the room, in that white refrigerator you'll find something wet and cold. Help yourself."

Ben went over and brought back three ice cold Pepsi's, giving one to each of his crewmates. Then he sat down and, like the others, gave all the details he could about what was wrong with the airplane, his equipment and so forth. The sergeants wrote furiously, recording the dozens of problems with 075 that demanded attention.

"That's quite a laundry list, colonel," remarked the captain. "But that old bird brought you back in one piece, at least."

"Yes indeed, captain. She's a good old bird, so I want you fellows to take good care of her."

"We'll have to get some of the General Dynamics folks over here for that, sir. This hasn't been a B-58 base in almost two years now, since they moved the wing up to Little Rock. The only maintenance experts we've got work strictly on B-52's and KC-135's. But I'm sure that GD can fix her up. Did you notice the four others across the runway?"

"Yes, captain. We saw them. Do you know what bases them came from? Or who the crews were?"

"All three were from Little Rock. I don't know the crew names, but I can find out, if you like."

"No. That's okay. We're going to the Command Post from here and they will know. I've still got to check in the SAC."

"Operations and Intelligence de-briefing is at those tables over there," the captain reminded, pointing across the room.

Al and his crew walked across the room, stopping only long enough to tell the lieutenant at the Intelligence Debriefing table that they had already fully debriefed at Ramey. "You can get our report from them. Contact Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Wolfram. He's got the details. Which way to the Command Post?"

The lieutenant explained that the Command Post was in the basement of the Wing Headquarters building, just up the street. So Al and his crew once again grabbed their gear and headed up the hill.

As they walked up the steps and into the lobby area of Wing Headquarters, a military policeman stopped them to ask where they were going. On hearing that they wanted the Command Post, he escorted them down the stairs to a guard post just outside a door with a one-way mirror and lots of lights.

Al showed his security badge and asked to be admitted, so he could talk to the senior man on duty. The guard pushed a button at the edge of his table and the door opened with a loud buzzing sound.

"We're the crew of Kingpin 75," Al declared, to the two majors and a lieutenant colonel seats at a console of buttons, lights, switches and telephones. On the wall behind them was a collection of Plexiglas covered charts and maps.

Big red X's marked on one chart apparently indicated which bases were hit and no longer operational, or at least that's what the crew assumed.

"Welcome home, fellows," the lieutenant colonel said in greeting the arrivals. "What can we do for you?"

"I'd like to use your hot line to check in with Barksdale," Al declared.

"Sure, colonel. Help yourself. Use the blue phone here at the end of the counter. It's connected directly to the SAC Command Post."

Al picked up the phone and in a few second a major answered. Al identified himself and wanted to report that Kingpin 75 was on the ground at Carswell. Then a Colonel Blackwell got on the line, telling Al that he was the senior controller on duty. Al again explained why he'd called.

"Well, Colonel Spivens ... you finally made it, eh? Welcome home. General O'Connor wants to talk with you. Can you be here in the next day or so? He wants to get your story and then tell you what's in store for you and your crew. You can hop over here in one of the Carswell T-39's, if you like. Are you current in that airplane?"

Al told a little fib, saying that yes, he was still current. He wasn't, but then all records reflecting that it had been six months since he last flew a T-39 were likely destroyed along with everything else at the Indiana base. He ended by saying, "We'll fly over tomorrow, be there before noon. Okay?" The colonel said that would be fine and that he would pass the message to General Blackwell.

"Looks like we're headed for Barksdale tomorrow," Al reported to his crew. "Let's check into the VOQ and then grab something to eat. And I guess we'd better stop by the base exchange and get some clothes. All we have are these flying suits. Can't stink up General O'Connor office now, can we."

The local Command Post controller at Carswell called the motor pool and asked that a staff car be made available for Colonel Spivens and his crew. "It'll be here in ten minutes, gentlemen. You can wait here, if you like."

On the way to the VOQ and base exchange, the crew stopped by the Finance office to get some money. The major in charge was as cooperative as he couple be, but without the crew's pay records he couldn't help much. Al explained that their pay records back in Indiana were probably just ashes now.

After some gradually more heated exchanges, the finance officer agreed to give them each $500, but only as an advance on their next pay checks. "We'll have to get your duplicate records for Denver," the major announced. Al responded, "You do whatever you think's fair. It'll all work out in the end, major." And then Al's crew left.

As they checked into the VOQ, the noticed five other crewmen in flying suits ahead of them. They turned out to be a B-52 crew from Wurtsmith, the crew of Ballad 07.

"Wurtsmith?" Al asked. "My god. We were passing by when your base got hit. You guys must have just made it too." And for the next several minutes the two crews talked, comparing notes and experiences. Ballad 07 turned out to be the B-52 that Al had seen before the tanker rendezvous.

When asked what the B-52 crew was doing next, the pilot explained that they were now stationed here at Carswell. The remnants of several B-52 outfits were being melded into a new unit here, plus another at Barksdale and a third at Edwards AFB in California. The 90 or so surviving B-52's would be formed up into three bombardment wings, each with new designations. And at each base the remaining KC-135's would be shared equally, some 60 surviving. That included those from Guam and other overseas bases that were brought back to the states.

After getting room assignments in the VOQ, Al and his crew headed for the Officer's Club for some lunch, actually an early supper. They'd managed to miss lunch, with all that debriefing and fighting the finance officer.

At the O. Club they had steaks and all the fixings, plus Al and Ben each had a cocktail. Soon the conversation devolved into a discussion of what might be in store for them now. And then Fred made a request.

"If we're taking a T-39 to Barksdale tomorrow, I wonder if we could make a detour on the way back. I'd sure like to make a flyover of our old base back in Indiana, just to see what's left, if anything."

"Yes, Al," Ben urged. Let's do that. Hell, it'll only require a fuel stop at Scott in the St. Louis area to make that detour."

"Why not. Yes. We can do that, but it'll depend on what time we finish with the SAC folks. We want to do the flyover in daylight, don't we?"

The next morning, a Tuesday, Al and his crew climbed aboard a T-39 executive jet for the short flight to Shreveport, Louisiana and Barksdale AFB, just 45 minutes away. They wore regular uniforms instead of flying suits. The weather was markedly improved at Carswell, but the low clouds, rain and ice were now east and over Barksdale. Ceilings were above minimums and it was merely raining when they landed, though some inflight icing was a worry briefly.

A staff car awaited when they deplaned, whisking them quickly to the new SAC headquarters, formerly that of the 2nd Air Force.

Major General O'Connor office on the second floor was spartan compared to the standards formerly enjoyed by the CINSAC in Omaha. Al had seen colonels at various other headquarters with more expansive and deluxe accommodations. But this is the new SAC ... the surviving command structure. All the staff and functional entities of the old SAC had to be rebuilt. The command is a pale shadow of its former self. In fact, it is hanging on for dear life as an operational entity.

Checking in with the general's secretary, the crew was told to proceed to a small conference room across the hall. They went in and sat down, awaiting their new CINSAC.

The door at the side of the room opened, and in walked a short, gray-haired man in a uniform bemedaled from breast pocket to the top of his shoulder. General Blackwell was a much decorated pilot whose career started in WW2. He'd seen action in the Pacific theater with the B-29's attacking Japan, flown B-26's in the Korean conflict and worked his way up the command structure of SAC from B-36's to B-52's and the unique B-58's.

The crew snapped to attention when the general entered the room, but were quickly put at ease, the general saying, "Please be seated, gentlemen. We've got work to do and little time for protocols."

After a few pleasantries and yet another recounting of the odyssey of Kingpin 75, the general revealed the purpose of this visit.

"Colonel Spivens, first off I want to tell you and your crew that the temporary spot promotions you earned before this damn conflict are now permanent ranks. You've earned that too."

A round of hearty thank you's and expressions of appreciation was soon over, when the general added, "And Al I have a job for you, a big one. As you know only too well, the B-58 force is greatly reduced. In fact, there are only a dozen aircraft left, and only eight of them flyable. I am asking you to become the squadron commander of a composite unit made up of these limited resources.

But more than that, I am asking you to get the surviving airplanes and crews back to combat ready status as quickly as possible. There is no telling how solid this truce arrangement is. SAC must make the most of it's remaining resources. And one more thing. I want you to send me a report, within the next 60 days, identifying specifically what upgrades the B-58's need to remain a viable part of our strategic forces for the next 10 to 15 years. I'm supposed to brief Congress on the status of our strategic forces and need that information. Are you up to it?"

  General Blackwell went on to explain that the FB-111 procurement, supposed to be the follow-on for the B-58's, was canceled with the devastation of the recent conflict. Congress has higher priorities. "We're going to have to do with what we've got for some time," he ended.

"That's a tall order, general. Are you sure I'm the most senior man available? Surely there are others with B-58 experience who should be considered. Yes, indeed, I am interested, but three weeks ago I was only a major."

"Listen to me Al, I know you're not the most senior, but I need someone who's been there, seen combat in the B-58 and knows first hand what's needed to train and qualify aircrews. Your record as an instructor and flight examiner, plus the combat experience you've just gained is just what I need. What do you say?"

"Well, general ... I'll give it my best. I do have some strong views on what upgrades are needed, especially after that mission we just flew. And I do have a couple of personal requests."

"Great. Consider yourself the commanding officer of the newest and only surviving B-58 squadron. We'll call it the 75th Bombardment Squadron. You'll be attached to the 7th Bomb Wing at Carswell, but operationally report to me, at least until we get the program up and ready again. And what is it that you think needs upgrading, at least initially?"

"We need a better avionics system, one capable of terrain following and terrain avoidance, perhaps a whole new system that includes low light level television and infrared scanners for all-weather low level work. And secondly, we need to replace the J-79 engines with something like turbofan jets that give us better fuel economy down low. The Mach 2 high altitude days are over, in my view."

"And General, there's one low-cost modification we could install ourselves, just $39.95 per airplane," Ben added.

The general laughed a bit and responded, "Major, there's no such thing in government procurement that costs just $39.95. What are you talking about?"

Then Ben described the roll-up ladder that they used so many times during their odyssey. He explained the difficulties of getting into and out of those high cockpits without access stands, which were seldom available.

"Now that's my kind of practical thinking. Be sure to include that idea in your report, Al," the general concluded, amused and intrigued.

"Okay ... good thinking. You get with the fellows at Wright-Pat and see what can be done about all of these ideas and others you come up with. So now what are these special request?"

"Firstly, General, we'd like to detour on the way back to Carswell ... up to Indiana to see what's left of our old base and pay last respects to the loved ones we lost there."

"No problem ... but you must not land. The radiation levels are still high, I'm told ... and that runway isn't in any shape to land on. Make your low flybys, if you like, but don't try to land. And what else do you want?"

"My crew and I want to take a week or two of leave. Our relatives in various places around the country should be visited, as part of the process of, well ... the grieving process and closure following our losses. I'm sure you understand."

"You take what time you need, all three of you. Just keep in mind that my job is to get SAC back in business and I need your help. If that truce doesn't hold, we'll need every airplane and crew that we can muster .. even a dozen B-58's."

"Thank you, General ... and we'll do our best."

Squadron Commander Al Spivens, and his crewmates, left General O'Connor's office and headed back to the flightline. Within the hour they were airborne and headed north to Indiana. By 4:30 that afternoon, just before darkness fell, they descended in clear skies for a low pass across their former air base.

The base was identifiable only by the runway and taxiways that they'd known to well. Almost everything else was gone ... right down to bare earth. Al made the first low pass at perhaps 50 feet above and over the runway, from the southwest to the northeast. Fred and Ben looked out of the plane's windshield and then the side windows as the base passed by.

"I can't believe this," Fred declared. Practically everything is gone. The housing area is absolutely bare, except for the concrete slabs where houses used to be. The sheet metal flightline shops, hangars and support buildings aren't there at all. It's unreal."

"I'll make a turn and fly back in the opposite direction ... and then a circle around the base one or two times. It's getting darker," Al decided. Coming back around for a pass down the runway in the opposite direction, Al noticed where the Alert Facility was. The top level was blown away, but he could see the lower level, the outlines of the rooms they slept in and the tunnels leading out to the aircraft parking area. The Christmas tree parking spots, minus the aircraft shelters, was discernible.

"Hey, Al ... look there, outside where the gate house used to be. Isn't that? ... my god it is. It's your old Plymouth. The darn thing is burned out and the tires and glass are gone. But there it is," Ben shouted.

Al couldn't believe it ... but clearly recognizable in the empty parking lot stood the hulk of his old Plymouth. "I told you guys that was one tough car. It never was pretty, but sure as hell was tough. I'll be damned."

Three circles around the perimeter of their old base was all they could manage in the fading light. It was time to go. Each man bid his own special farewell to the dear ones lost in that fiery blast. At least they went quickly, the crew collectively realized.

The T-39 climbed out and turned southwest, headed for Scott Field in southern Illinois. They'd have to stop for fuel before returning to Texas.