Chapter 1
Somewhere over North-Central New Mexico
0235 MST/0935 ZULU
Saturday, December 29th, 1984
F-111D 68-0807 of the 4427th Tactical Fighter Replacement Squadron
The twin turbofans of the twin TF-30P-9 engines roared through the night sky of the featureless New Mexican desert, the sound of the aircraft arriving before the aircraft did as it roared by, barely 200 to 300 feet off the ground, it’s Terrain Following Radar, or TFR for short, set to “hard” to get the maximum terrain masking effect. Hard referred to the ride the perceived ride would be, and the autopilot tied into the TFR did not disappoint.
In the cockpit, two professionals, barely out of their flight schools and on the cusp of their final exam reexamined their cockpit settings, while keeping one eye out for any unknown obstructions such as power lines that didn’t have a appreciable radar return. Many students had been killed over the years by what was euphemistically called by many in military aviation called CFIT, or Controlled Flight Into Terrain.
1st Lieutenant Daria Morgendorffer was simply trying to concentrate on flying the aircraft in the inky black, and hoping to Christ she didn’t experience the joys of CFIT, or more embarrassingly, having to recycle on their final exam. She chanced a glance at her WSO, or “wisso” as they were colloquially known, 1st Lieutenant Jane Lane and mused Two more unlikely Air Force officers are we. Ah shit, Morgendorffer, concentrate on flying the goddamned airplane.
Neither pilot nor WSO could see the other’s face, let alone their head underneath their helmets, oxygen masks and visors, and even if they could, it wouldn’t be something they’d be paying much attention to. Both pilot and WSO were coated in a slick sheen of sweat, and were so focused on their tasks, neither had had time for any sort of banter, let alone any kind of reminiscing about “good ol’ Lawndale”.
Daria was doing all she could not to grab the damn stick and climb for altitude, but the fact was, the autopilot was tied into the TFR, and it was giving them a ride reminiscent of a bucking bronco machine Daria had once encountered during her days at the ‘Springs. The tired old F-111 shimmied, groaned and some small bangs occasionally towards the rear of the aircraft. It had unnerved both pilot and WSO, and Daria had thrown up in her oxygen mask once during an earlier familiarization hop, thankfully while it was unhooked, but they were both used to it by now.
“Major terrain feature coming up fast at two ‘o clock, 3 miles” said Jane, laconically. Her eyes were split for attention, half the time, they were looking into the hooded display of the radar, and the other half of the time, they were looking up for short periods, in her sector of the aircraft making sure that they didn’t miss a powerline, or a terrain feature the TFR did miss. One thing about TFR flight, it wasn’t boring.
“Got it, shit, that was a bit close.”
Jane smiled to herself, unseen under her mask as they roared down towards their target, an oft-abused AAF airfield left over from WWII. It was now being used as a mock target for F-111 classes at Cannon AFB further south. The airfield had endured more mock nuclear attacks than Almorgordo had real tests. And now, it was Daria and Jane’s turn to execute a LABS or Low Altitude Bombing System attack utilizing a pair of B-61 nuclear bombs, set to 60 kilotons each.
The idea was to put one of the bombs at either end of the runway, but to be honest, if they got it with spitting range of the middle of the airfield, it would be good enough for the final exam. Another student F-111, coming in from a different approach was going to hit the airfield 2 minutes after the first attack with another 60-kiloton device to hit the other end of the airfield. The other practice bomb was there in case the first one missed, though Daria didn’t want to contemplate that. Scoring for their final was, well…. strict.
But there was one other consideration, Daria didn’t want to contemplate the embarrassment both she and Jane were going to have to deal with if she missed on the first go round. It was an unspoken article of faith among F-111 crews. To miss a target was simply not done, not even two rookies on their final exam to graduate the RTU and become an operational crew.
It had been a long strange trip for them both to the Air Force, someplace that if you had asked either of them, they both would have shrugged and simply said, “shit happens”. For Daria, it had all begun one fall day of her senior year of high school in 1977….
Interlude 1: Lightning Strikes
Daria had let herself in after school, and found a note on the table. She was used to this by now, with Quinn having Fashion Club, and her parents off god knew where, with, as Daria surmised, with god knew who?
She shuddered at that last bit, not that both of her parents were having affairs, but the very idea of her parents, well, doing that. Intellectually, she knew this was a silly thing to be grossed out about, I mean, how in the hell did Quinn and she get there if they didn’t? But the idea…well, it just didn’t sit well. Part of being an American teenager, I guess? But why the note? As she looked on, it was addressed to Quinn and Daria in her mother’s prim and proper handwriting.
Daria, Quinn;
We’ll be home late; we need to have a family meeting. We’ll get into why later.
Love,
Mom
Oh Damn, Daria’s mind reported, Quinn and her cohorts probably got themselves in some kind of jam and I have to play big sis to the rescue? Daria lunged for the phone and dialed a number she knew by heart. After two rings, a familiar and welcome voice picked up on the other end.
“Hello”
“It’s me, Jane, Quinn’s probably gone and done it again.”
“Oh crap, want me to come over?”
“If you want, seriously, why can’t we just drown her and get it over with, I mean, who’d miss her? The Fashion Club, the three Js? She really can’t be all that important to the future of humanity or something, can she?”
“One hopes not, Morgendorffer, but you know with your history where the cops will look first.”
“Only if you tell them Lane, only if you tell them.”
“Traitor” Daria barked with a chuckle.
“Hey, a girl has to think about her future. And if the cops offer a sweet deal…”
“Planned homicides aside, can you come over, I just got a bad feeling about this…”
“No problema, Amiga. Be over in a few.”
Daria gently hung up the phone in the kitchen and made her way upstairs. She was dreading the “family meeting” already.
Three Hours Later….
Daria and Jane had spent the time studying, and speculating whether or not the family meeting was sending Quinn away because she’d been caught in a cocaine fueled drug bust, or it was the long awaited announcement that the Morgendorffers were getting a divorce.
Nothing had prepared her for the surprise that had been waiting for her downstairs.
The kitchen was brighter than normal, with the light bouncing off of the beige linoleum countertops and white marble to create an environment that was almost blinding. But, somehow, Daria faked finding her way to the kitchen table. A forced smile at Quinn, and a less forced smile at her parents came next. God, whatever the hell this is going to be, please let it be quick and merciful.
“Girls, we have some bad news for you both. I wish it weren’t so, but some investments your father made didn’t exactly pan out.”
“Hey, I thought that beets as alternative fuel was a great idea! You seemed to think so too!” exclaimed Jake, his face turning red with a mixture of mortification and anger.
“Yes dear, I suppose you would think so. Mr. “I know so much better about money!” snapped Jane.
Quinn and Daria glanced looks at each other. The sisters had been close, once, before the pressures of high school had driven them apart, but now, that closeness was rediscovered. Was this it? Was a divorce finally coming?
“Girls, I’ll just come right out and say it. We had to use half of the college fund to pay down some debts, including the mortgage. We’re fine, but well, we can only afford to send one of you to college.”
Both Daria and Quinns jaws dropped. It was unthinkable that only one of them was going. How in the hell could Dad be so damn irresponsible? I mean, Dad was neurotic about money!
“I hate to do this, girls, but we as a family have to make a decision on which one goes to college, and which one may have to wait a few years.”
Daria looked about the table, her sister was crying, her dreams of a life at Fashion Institute of Technology and living in New York were dashed, at best. And Daria’s own dreams, of Boston College and being the writer she wanted to be, circling the metaphorical drain. It made her feel sick, and she could feel the bile rising in her throat like an unstoppable tide.
“Jesus!” Daria blurted out. She stood to her feet with a shot “So, what’s the plan then? Have us fight it out on the front lawn? Winner goes to college?” Her parents looked on in horror at Daria’s words and saw that she was holding back tears by force of will.
“Daria, no. You should go. I’m…I’m a bubblehead, you’re the smart one.” Quinn said softly, placing an hand on her arm.
“No, sis. There are options for me. This is your only shot. FIT is a bitch to get into, I looked it up for you.” Daria smiled weakly.
“What kind of options?” Helen inquired
“Well, there was a Air Force recruiter at school today…and he did say I had the grades to get into the Air Force Academy..and mom, you do know somebody on Representative Steer’s staff? Could he get me an academy appointment?”
“Daria, why the hell all the interest in the Air Force? The military ruined my Dad!” Jake exclaimed.
“Jake honey, it’s her life.” Helen said, placing his hand in hers.
“Mom, think about it, if I get it, it’s a chance for me to go to school on Uncle Sam, I serve my time, get out and do something else.” Daria suggested
“True kiddo, but your eyes. I mean, no offense, they aren’t that great.”
“Not that bad either dad, and it’s not like I want a flying job.” Daria explained.
“Let me call the good Congressman in the morning Daria, I am sure I can get you that appointment.” Jane smiled a knowing smile.
“Ok…” Daria looked on, knowing there was some history between Congressman Steers and her mother that she definitely did not want to know about…
************
Daria snapped back to the present. The rest was history. She’d discovered she LIKED flying, but with her vision and gender, the best she was going to manage was flying C-141s or KC-135s. Not exactly interesting flying, and not the kind of flying she wanted to do.
So, what happened? Fate struck again in Daria’s life in 1980. As she was home on Christmas break, she consulted her ophthalmologist. It turned out her initial diagnosis of near sightedness was mistaken. She had a simple problem that was easily corrected with a minor surgical procedure. Some time on her back during summer leave from the academy and a medical review board later, she had been cleared for flight status. But because she was a woman, there was still no prospect of any “real flying” as Daria had been informed.
But in 1981, a president Daria hadn’t even voted for changed her life forever. While Daria was sweating her junior year at the Air Force Academy, newly elected President Ronald Regan had his own issues. He wanted to expand the military, and that included the Air Force. But, the problem was simple. There was a shortage of potential qualified pilots. Several solutions were suggested, but all of them required lowering standards to levels neither the Air Force nor the DoD was really happy with. There was only one solution: Put women in the cockpit of combat aircraft. Reagan wasn’t happy with it. Neither was Weinberger, but as one White House aide put it “It will get some of the feminists in support of the defense buildup”. Thus, with one house bill which had bipartisan support, and guaranteed liberal support for much of the other Reagan defense initiatives, and as March 6th, 1981, women were now allowed to fly combat or man combat roles on board ships of the US Navy. They were still barred from most combat roles in the Army and the Marines, but the Military Police and some other Combat Support roles had been opened to them.
Daria had immediately run down to find her TAC at the academy, vision of being an F-15 driver dancing in her head. Her tactical officer had mournfully brought her back to earth with the words; “Nope, a lot of the women who are already in are going to beat you to the F-15 and F-16 slots. Just the way things are. But, there are plenty of openings in the F-4, F-111 and A-10 communities. Or you could try B-52s? But I think I know you well enough.”
Her TAC had said, “You want F-111s. They are big, fast, loud and you get to fly as low and as fast as you can. I drive F-111s, and I love every damn minute of it.”
One trip to Mountain Home AFB and a check ride in an F-111 that summer had sold it for her. It wasn’t sleek and hip like F-15s or F-16s, (but the F-111 had pretty nice lines for something that moved mud, and yeah, it was fast) but somehow, it suited the non-conformist in her. And the idea of sneaking around at night making things go boom then running like she’d stolen the aircraft made her smile. Screw them, fighters make headlines, we attack pilots make history.
“Hey, you with me, Daria?” Jane exclaimed. “We’re coming up on the IP”.
“Shit, sorry, just thinking how I got here.”
“Comeon, amiga. Head in the game. We got us and thirty million dollars worth of airplane here. I really want to bring it all back the same way we found it.”
“Right, ok, break out the Bomb Run (Nuclear) checklists and let’s do this” while reaching above her head, keeping her eyes on the world outside.
Just at that moment, the Radar Warning Receiver hooted a wailing noise and a diamond appeared on the display above the WSO’s station. It was a small, box like display, with the space around the aircraft displayed into quadrants. A diamond with a “6” appeared on the display, signifying a “Straight Flush” type radar, which was the acquisition and tracking unit for the SA-6 surface to air missile system had acquired the aircraft, and was seeking to lock onto and fire a missile. It wasn’t a real SA-6, though the radar was probably real, captured from god knew where, but for Daria’s purposes, it was real enough, as getting killed by a SAM would flunk them the exercise, and get them recycled, or repeating the course.
Daria’s blood went cold, but her training kicked in “Jane, chaff, jammers, now!”
Jane slammed her fist down on the countermeasures button and turned on their jammer pod under the right wing, She fell into formality and regulation, just as she had been trained “Pilot, SA-6 at 9 o’clock, 8 miles, hasn’t fired but she knows we’re here.”
“Pilot’s airplane!” Daria exclaimed as she took back the stick from the autopilot. It was somewhat risky what she was about to do, but she didn’t intend to wait until the SA-6 fired before trying to break the lock it had achieved.
“Lane, any significant terrain? I’m gonna take this thing down to 100 feet and run like hell, don’t want to blunder into a mountain!”
“Scope’s clear for the next six miles, only significant terrain is a minor feature at 11 o’clock, make it 9 miles.”
“Stats on the SA-6?”
“15 mile range, speed Mach 2.8, semi-active radar-homing seeker and a minimum attitude of 330 feet.”
Daria smiled and sucked in a bit of air noisily. “Shit, first piece of good news, ok, we stay low, pop up for the LABS toss, then kick in the burners and dump a ton of chaff. The target’s what, another 12 miles?”
Jane head nodded as she kept her attention riveted on her scope “Yep, but 100 feet? Jesus Daria, we’d better hope nobody put any power lines or simulated guns out there.”
Daria’s spine chilled at both thoughts. Simulated guns would “kill” them just as dead as the faux SA-6 out there. But the power lines? That would really make us dead. Bummer.
The time to the release point from the target passed quickly as Daria’s attention was fully focused on flying the aircraft. A F-111 100 feet off the ground going full military power left little, if any, margin for error and if Daria rose another 200 feet before she was ready to set up for the toss? Then there was a good chance the SA-6 would catch her and Jane.
“8 miles to target, its time, Daria”
Daria and Jane both reached over with their left hands to a keypad, and punched in a 15 digit code each to “unlock” the practice warheads in the bomb bay. The bombs weren’t really B-61s, just 12-pound dummies that were ballistically similar, but for purposes of the exam, everything was done, as it would have been for real.
“Code acknowledged” muttered Jane.
“Code acknowledged, we have nuclear consent.”
“Ok, 3, 2, 1. Weapons computer has the airplane. Wait for the cue. Opening bomb bay doors” Jane said tensely. The centerline bomb bay doors opened with a slight hydraulic whine.
The RWR hooted again, and this time, the diamond was with a “57” in the center, signifying there was a Fire Can type radar directing a 57mm battery against Daria’s airplane. It was close, looked about maybe 3 miles or so, at 12 o’ clock. She could only hope the exercise tracking equipment didn’t register a hit against the F-111 during the run, but she couldn’t worry too much about it.
“Run’s looking good, I have good return on the airfield. I can see the aiming point clearly” said Jane in a satisfied tone.
“PULL, PULL, PULL” intoned a mechanical, female sounding voice from the aircraft, and Daria, put the aircraft on it’s tail and advanced the throttle to it’s stops. The computer calculated the information from the radar return, calculated where the aircraft was and then automatically triggered the bomb release. Daria continued to pull the F-111 into a half loop, then at the apogee of the loop, turned the aircraft upright, and continued to accelerate away from the target at full afterburner, the blue flame shooting for at least six to eight feet away from the aircraft. A 60 kt nuclear weapon had a lethal radius to flying aircraft of about 3 miles.
“Tell me that hit, tell me that hit, amiga” Jane pleaded.
“Dunno, let’s just run like hell before they rule us dead from our own bomb? And don’t forget the chaff!”
A few beats passed, and the whine of the RWR turned off, and a voice crackled in Jane and Daria’s helmets.
“Rookie 07, this is range control. Ladies, good shack, I repeat, good shack. Comeon home. Watch for Rookie 05 making his own run. Out.”
“Yes!” Daria exclaimed, almost squealing.
“We did, amiga! We’re big bad fighter jocks now!”
“Me, big, bad? I don’t exactly look the part?”
“Ugh, Dammit Daria, It’s time to get some ego, girl. We are the new female paragdigm. We fly a 30 million dollar airplane, and we fling nuclear fireballs! We are the epitome of cool!”
“Um, Jane, don’t make me hurt you?”
“You won’t when you hear what I got planned with you, your Z-28 and our 30 days graduation leave!”
Daria put the aircraft in a gentle turn back towards Cannon and smiled, unhooking her oxygen mask. Jane aped her actions, and both of them smiled a knowing smile.
“Does it begin with Las and end with Vegas?”
“Yes, it does, Daria, I have been too good for two damn long, and so have you. I am in the mood for some sin, and where else but the place that specializes?”
“Ya know, I am getting to like this swagger thing. Didn’t think I would, but yeah. I do. Glad I have you to share it with, Jane.”
“Suits you Daria, hey, we’re fighter pilots, or well, pilot and WSO. But it doesn’t matter, we have a cool job! Eat your heart out Brittany!”
Somewhere over North-Central New Mexico
0235 MST/0935 ZULU
Saturday, December 29th, 1984
F-111D 68-0807 of the 4427th Tactical Fighter Replacement Squadron
The twin turbofans of the twin TF-30P-9 engines roared through the night sky of the featureless New Mexican desert, the sound of the aircraft arriving before the aircraft did as it roared by, barely 200 to 300 feet off the ground, it’s Terrain Following Radar, or TFR for short, set to “hard” to get the maximum terrain masking effect. Hard referred to the ride the perceived ride would be, and the autopilot tied into the TFR did not disappoint.
In the cockpit, two professionals, barely out of their flight schools and on the cusp of their final exam reexamined their cockpit settings, while keeping one eye out for any unknown obstructions such as power lines that didn’t have a appreciable radar return. Many students had been killed over the years by what was euphemistically called by many in military aviation called CFIT, or Controlled Flight Into Terrain.
1st Lieutenant Daria Morgendorffer was simply trying to concentrate on flying the aircraft in the inky black, and hoping to Christ she didn’t experience the joys of CFIT, or more embarrassingly, having to recycle on their final exam. She chanced a glance at her WSO, or “wisso” as they were colloquially known, 1st Lieutenant Jane Lane and mused Two more unlikely Air Force officers are we. Ah shit, Morgendorffer, concentrate on flying the goddamned airplane.
Neither pilot nor WSO could see the other’s face, let alone their head underneath their helmets, oxygen masks and visors, and even if they could, it wouldn’t be something they’d be paying much attention to. Both pilot and WSO were coated in a slick sheen of sweat, and were so focused on their tasks, neither had had time for any sort of banter, let alone any kind of reminiscing about “good ol’ Lawndale”.
Daria was doing all she could not to grab the damn stick and climb for altitude, but the fact was, the autopilot was tied into the TFR, and it was giving them a ride reminiscent of a bucking bronco machine Daria had once encountered during her days at the ‘Springs. The tired old F-111 shimmied, groaned and some small bangs occasionally towards the rear of the aircraft. It had unnerved both pilot and WSO, and Daria had thrown up in her oxygen mask once during an earlier familiarization hop, thankfully while it was unhooked, but they were both used to it by now.
“Major terrain feature coming up fast at two ‘o clock, 3 miles” said Jane, laconically. Her eyes were split for attention, half the time, they were looking into the hooded display of the radar, and the other half of the time, they were looking up for short periods, in her sector of the aircraft making sure that they didn’t miss a powerline, or a terrain feature the TFR did miss. One thing about TFR flight, it wasn’t boring.
“Got it, shit, that was a bit close.”
Jane smiled to herself, unseen under her mask as they roared down towards their target, an oft-abused AAF airfield left over from WWII. It was now being used as a mock target for F-111 classes at Cannon AFB further south. The airfield had endured more mock nuclear attacks than Almorgordo had real tests. And now, it was Daria and Jane’s turn to execute a LABS or Low Altitude Bombing System attack utilizing a pair of B-61 nuclear bombs, set to 60 kilotons each.
The idea was to put one of the bombs at either end of the runway, but to be honest, if they got it with spitting range of the middle of the airfield, it would be good enough for the final exam. Another student F-111, coming in from a different approach was going to hit the airfield 2 minutes after the first attack with another 60-kiloton device to hit the other end of the airfield. The other practice bomb was there in case the first one missed, though Daria didn’t want to contemplate that. Scoring for their final was, well…. strict.
But there was one other consideration, Daria didn’t want to contemplate the embarrassment both she and Jane were going to have to deal with if she missed on the first go round. It was an unspoken article of faith among F-111 crews. To miss a target was simply not done, not even two rookies on their final exam to graduate the RTU and become an operational crew.
It had been a long strange trip for them both to the Air Force, someplace that if you had asked either of them, they both would have shrugged and simply said, “shit happens”. For Daria, it had all begun one fall day of her senior year of high school in 1977….
Interlude 1: Lightning Strikes
Daria had let herself in after school, and found a note on the table. She was used to this by now, with Quinn having Fashion Club, and her parents off god knew where, with, as Daria surmised, with god knew who?
She shuddered at that last bit, not that both of her parents were having affairs, but the very idea of her parents, well, doing that. Intellectually, she knew this was a silly thing to be grossed out about, I mean, how in the hell did Quinn and she get there if they didn’t? But the idea…well, it just didn’t sit well. Part of being an American teenager, I guess? But why the note? As she looked on, it was addressed to Quinn and Daria in her mother’s prim and proper handwriting.
Daria, Quinn;
We’ll be home late; we need to have a family meeting. We’ll get into why later.
Love,
Mom
Oh Damn, Daria’s mind reported, Quinn and her cohorts probably got themselves in some kind of jam and I have to play big sis to the rescue? Daria lunged for the phone and dialed a number she knew by heart. After two rings, a familiar and welcome voice picked up on the other end.
“Hello”
“It’s me, Jane, Quinn’s probably gone and done it again.”
“Oh crap, want me to come over?”
“If you want, seriously, why can’t we just drown her and get it over with, I mean, who’d miss her? The Fashion Club, the three Js? She really can’t be all that important to the future of humanity or something, can she?”
“One hopes not, Morgendorffer, but you know with your history where the cops will look first.”
“Only if you tell them Lane, only if you tell them.”
“Traitor” Daria barked with a chuckle.
“Hey, a girl has to think about her future. And if the cops offer a sweet deal…”
“Planned homicides aside, can you come over, I just got a bad feeling about this…”
“No problema, Amiga. Be over in a few.”
Daria gently hung up the phone in the kitchen and made her way upstairs. She was dreading the “family meeting” already.
Three Hours Later….
Daria and Jane had spent the time studying, and speculating whether or not the family meeting was sending Quinn away because she’d been caught in a cocaine fueled drug bust, or it was the long awaited announcement that the Morgendorffers were getting a divorce.
Nothing had prepared her for the surprise that had been waiting for her downstairs.
The kitchen was brighter than normal, with the light bouncing off of the beige linoleum countertops and white marble to create an environment that was almost blinding. But, somehow, Daria faked finding her way to the kitchen table. A forced smile at Quinn, and a less forced smile at her parents came next. God, whatever the hell this is going to be, please let it be quick and merciful.
“Girls, we have some bad news for you both. I wish it weren’t so, but some investments your father made didn’t exactly pan out.”
“Hey, I thought that beets as alternative fuel was a great idea! You seemed to think so too!” exclaimed Jake, his face turning red with a mixture of mortification and anger.
“Yes dear, I suppose you would think so. Mr. “I know so much better about money!” snapped Jane.
Quinn and Daria glanced looks at each other. The sisters had been close, once, before the pressures of high school had driven them apart, but now, that closeness was rediscovered. Was this it? Was a divorce finally coming?
“Girls, I’ll just come right out and say it. We had to use half of the college fund to pay down some debts, including the mortgage. We’re fine, but well, we can only afford to send one of you to college.”
Both Daria and Quinns jaws dropped. It was unthinkable that only one of them was going. How in the hell could Dad be so damn irresponsible? I mean, Dad was neurotic about money!
“I hate to do this, girls, but we as a family have to make a decision on which one goes to college, and which one may have to wait a few years.”
Daria looked about the table, her sister was crying, her dreams of a life at Fashion Institute of Technology and living in New York were dashed, at best. And Daria’s own dreams, of Boston College and being the writer she wanted to be, circling the metaphorical drain. It made her feel sick, and she could feel the bile rising in her throat like an unstoppable tide.
“Jesus!” Daria blurted out. She stood to her feet with a shot “So, what’s the plan then? Have us fight it out on the front lawn? Winner goes to college?” Her parents looked on in horror at Daria’s words and saw that she was holding back tears by force of will.
“Daria, no. You should go. I’m…I’m a bubblehead, you’re the smart one.” Quinn said softly, placing an hand on her arm.
“No, sis. There are options for me. This is your only shot. FIT is a bitch to get into, I looked it up for you.” Daria smiled weakly.
“What kind of options?” Helen inquired
“Well, there was a Air Force recruiter at school today…and he did say I had the grades to get into the Air Force Academy..and mom, you do know somebody on Representative Steer’s staff? Could he get me an academy appointment?”
“Daria, why the hell all the interest in the Air Force? The military ruined my Dad!” Jake exclaimed.
“Jake honey, it’s her life.” Helen said, placing his hand in hers.
“Mom, think about it, if I get it, it’s a chance for me to go to school on Uncle Sam, I serve my time, get out and do something else.” Daria suggested
“True kiddo, but your eyes. I mean, no offense, they aren’t that great.”
“Not that bad either dad, and it’s not like I want a flying job.” Daria explained.
“Let me call the good Congressman in the morning Daria, I am sure I can get you that appointment.” Jane smiled a knowing smile.
“Ok…” Daria looked on, knowing there was some history between Congressman Steers and her mother that she definitely did not want to know about…
************
Daria snapped back to the present. The rest was history. She’d discovered she LIKED flying, but with her vision and gender, the best she was going to manage was flying C-141s or KC-135s. Not exactly interesting flying, and not the kind of flying she wanted to do.
So, what happened? Fate struck again in Daria’s life in 1980. As she was home on Christmas break, she consulted her ophthalmologist. It turned out her initial diagnosis of near sightedness was mistaken. She had a simple problem that was easily corrected with a minor surgical procedure. Some time on her back during summer leave from the academy and a medical review board later, she had been cleared for flight status. But because she was a woman, there was still no prospect of any “real flying” as Daria had been informed.
But in 1981, a president Daria hadn’t even voted for changed her life forever. While Daria was sweating her junior year at the Air Force Academy, newly elected President Ronald Regan had his own issues. He wanted to expand the military, and that included the Air Force. But, the problem was simple. There was a shortage of potential qualified pilots. Several solutions were suggested, but all of them required lowering standards to levels neither the Air Force nor the DoD was really happy with. There was only one solution: Put women in the cockpit of combat aircraft. Reagan wasn’t happy with it. Neither was Weinberger, but as one White House aide put it “It will get some of the feminists in support of the defense buildup”. Thus, with one house bill which had bipartisan support, and guaranteed liberal support for much of the other Reagan defense initiatives, and as March 6th, 1981, women were now allowed to fly combat or man combat roles on board ships of the US Navy. They were still barred from most combat roles in the Army and the Marines, but the Military Police and some other Combat Support roles had been opened to them.
Daria had immediately run down to find her TAC at the academy, vision of being an F-15 driver dancing in her head. Her tactical officer had mournfully brought her back to earth with the words; “Nope, a lot of the women who are already in are going to beat you to the F-15 and F-16 slots. Just the way things are. But, there are plenty of openings in the F-4, F-111 and A-10 communities. Or you could try B-52s? But I think I know you well enough.”
Her TAC had said, “You want F-111s. They are big, fast, loud and you get to fly as low and as fast as you can. I drive F-111s, and I love every damn minute of it.”
One trip to Mountain Home AFB and a check ride in an F-111 that summer had sold it for her. It wasn’t sleek and hip like F-15s or F-16s, (but the F-111 had pretty nice lines for something that moved mud, and yeah, it was fast) but somehow, it suited the non-conformist in her. And the idea of sneaking around at night making things go boom then running like she’d stolen the aircraft made her smile. Screw them, fighters make headlines, we attack pilots make history.
“Hey, you with me, Daria?” Jane exclaimed. “We’re coming up on the IP”.
“Shit, sorry, just thinking how I got here.”
“Comeon, amiga. Head in the game. We got us and thirty million dollars worth of airplane here. I really want to bring it all back the same way we found it.”
“Right, ok, break out the Bomb Run (Nuclear) checklists and let’s do this” while reaching above her head, keeping her eyes on the world outside.
Just at that moment, the Radar Warning Receiver hooted a wailing noise and a diamond appeared on the display above the WSO’s station. It was a small, box like display, with the space around the aircraft displayed into quadrants. A diamond with a “6” appeared on the display, signifying a “Straight Flush” type radar, which was the acquisition and tracking unit for the SA-6 surface to air missile system had acquired the aircraft, and was seeking to lock onto and fire a missile. It wasn’t a real SA-6, though the radar was probably real, captured from god knew where, but for Daria’s purposes, it was real enough, as getting killed by a SAM would flunk them the exercise, and get them recycled, or repeating the course.
Daria’s blood went cold, but her training kicked in “Jane, chaff, jammers, now!”
Jane slammed her fist down on the countermeasures button and turned on their jammer pod under the right wing, She fell into formality and regulation, just as she had been trained “Pilot, SA-6 at 9 o’clock, 8 miles, hasn’t fired but she knows we’re here.”
“Pilot’s airplane!” Daria exclaimed as she took back the stick from the autopilot. It was somewhat risky what she was about to do, but she didn’t intend to wait until the SA-6 fired before trying to break the lock it had achieved.
“Lane, any significant terrain? I’m gonna take this thing down to 100 feet and run like hell, don’t want to blunder into a mountain!”
“Scope’s clear for the next six miles, only significant terrain is a minor feature at 11 o’clock, make it 9 miles.”
“Stats on the SA-6?”
“15 mile range, speed Mach 2.8, semi-active radar-homing seeker and a minimum attitude of 330 feet.”
Daria smiled and sucked in a bit of air noisily. “Shit, first piece of good news, ok, we stay low, pop up for the LABS toss, then kick in the burners and dump a ton of chaff. The target’s what, another 12 miles?”
Jane head nodded as she kept her attention riveted on her scope “Yep, but 100 feet? Jesus Daria, we’d better hope nobody put any power lines or simulated guns out there.”
Daria’s spine chilled at both thoughts. Simulated guns would “kill” them just as dead as the faux SA-6 out there. But the power lines? That would really make us dead. Bummer.
The time to the release point from the target passed quickly as Daria’s attention was fully focused on flying the aircraft. A F-111 100 feet off the ground going full military power left little, if any, margin for error and if Daria rose another 200 feet before she was ready to set up for the toss? Then there was a good chance the SA-6 would catch her and Jane.
“8 miles to target, its time, Daria”
Daria and Jane both reached over with their left hands to a keypad, and punched in a 15 digit code each to “unlock” the practice warheads in the bomb bay. The bombs weren’t really B-61s, just 12-pound dummies that were ballistically similar, but for purposes of the exam, everything was done, as it would have been for real.
“Code acknowledged” muttered Jane.
“Code acknowledged, we have nuclear consent.”
“Ok, 3, 2, 1. Weapons computer has the airplane. Wait for the cue. Opening bomb bay doors” Jane said tensely. The centerline bomb bay doors opened with a slight hydraulic whine.
The RWR hooted again, and this time, the diamond was with a “57” in the center, signifying there was a Fire Can type radar directing a 57mm battery against Daria’s airplane. It was close, looked about maybe 3 miles or so, at 12 o’ clock. She could only hope the exercise tracking equipment didn’t register a hit against the F-111 during the run, but she couldn’t worry too much about it.
“Run’s looking good, I have good return on the airfield. I can see the aiming point clearly” said Jane in a satisfied tone.
“PULL, PULL, PULL” intoned a mechanical, female sounding voice from the aircraft, and Daria, put the aircraft on it’s tail and advanced the throttle to it’s stops. The computer calculated the information from the radar return, calculated where the aircraft was and then automatically triggered the bomb release. Daria continued to pull the F-111 into a half loop, then at the apogee of the loop, turned the aircraft upright, and continued to accelerate away from the target at full afterburner, the blue flame shooting for at least six to eight feet away from the aircraft. A 60 kt nuclear weapon had a lethal radius to flying aircraft of about 3 miles.
“Tell me that hit, tell me that hit, amiga” Jane pleaded.
“Dunno, let’s just run like hell before they rule us dead from our own bomb? And don’t forget the chaff!”
A few beats passed, and the whine of the RWR turned off, and a voice crackled in Jane and Daria’s helmets.
“Rookie 07, this is range control. Ladies, good shack, I repeat, good shack. Comeon home. Watch for Rookie 05 making his own run. Out.”
“Yes!” Daria exclaimed, almost squealing.
“We did, amiga! We’re big bad fighter jocks now!”
“Me, big, bad? I don’t exactly look the part?”
“Ugh, Dammit Daria, It’s time to get some ego, girl. We are the new female paragdigm. We fly a 30 million dollar airplane, and we fling nuclear fireballs! We are the epitome of cool!”
“Um, Jane, don’t make me hurt you?”
“You won’t when you hear what I got planned with you, your Z-28 and our 30 days graduation leave!”
Daria put the aircraft in a gentle turn back towards Cannon and smiled, unhooking her oxygen mask. Jane aped her actions, and both of them smiled a knowing smile.
“Does it begin with Las and end with Vegas?”
“Yes, it does, Daria, I have been too good for two damn long, and so have you. I am in the mood for some sin, and where else but the place that specializes?”
“Ya know, I am getting to like this swagger thing. Didn’t think I would, but yeah. I do. Glad I have you to share it with, Jane.”
“Suits you Daria, hey, we’re fighter pilots, or well, pilot and WSO. But it doesn’t matter, we have a cool job! Eat your heart out Brittany!”