Landings
Copyright© 2015 by Gina Marie Wylie
Chapter 2: A Tougher Road Than Any I’ve Walked
Heinlein wrote that the army seemed to have two order authorities: a dirty tricks department and a fairy godmother department. You never knew who was going to dish out your orders.
I reported in to Ft. Lewis and was quickly passed from office to office. To my enormous surprise, I ended up in the office of the 2nd Battalion, of the 75th Ranger Regiment. I’d been flabbergasted and stunned that I’d ended up in a Ranger unit.
Their CO was not impressed with me either. “I have been levied for two field grade officer couriers. You aren’t fit to be a Ranger, Major. No offense.”
I remembered Brian and him telling the Seahawks to take their job and shove it. I was in the Army and didn’t have the freedom. “Colonel Mendoza, I was assigned here by the 10th Mountain Division. No offense taken.”
He laughed at me! “I understand that you’ve had a preliminary orientation to flight. I am not authorized to know what the officers I’ve been levied are doing, but I do have this sweetener for you. You have been adjudged an exceptional officer, by people I know and respect. Give me six months and you will be transferred to that nice part of Ft. Leavenworth.”
I twitched. That was the common euphemism among field grade officers for the Command and General Staff College. Unless you attended, you were doomed to end your career as a major.
“For that, sir, I will be the best-behaved courier you have,” I told him.
“Major James will brief you. That’s all, Major,” and with that, I was dismissed.
There were four courier flights a week. I went on Mondays and Wednesdays; someone else traveled on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I wasn’t surprised that Colonel Mendoza was cheating the Army — working twice a week wasn’t exactly onerous.
It was really a sinecure, and it really wasn’t physically demanding. We flew to a location near the Hanford Reservation and were met by someone; then on to Hermiston, Oregon, and met someone else.
I had to be a McCord at 0815, takeoff at 0900, and back to the barn before 1600. We flew a Loach, a two-seat helicopter that, while not comfy, was better than my old car before the Pathfinder.
I had draconian instructions: if there was any chance that I would lose the briefcase I had strapped to my wrist, I was to destroy it, contents unopened. If I ever opened the briefcase, a demolition charge would destroy the contents and very likely kill me as well.
Anything, anything at all, if done often enough, becomes humdrum. Until it changes, of course.
The phone rang at three-thirty in the morning, the Saturday before Christmas. I answered it and found I was speaking to Colonel Mendoza.
“You requested and required, Major Cross, to get dressed in your usual duty uniform, dress warmly, and report to the baseball field at the local high school. There, Captain O’Malley will pick you up. You will make a run and return to McCord. You will have transportation back home. You have fifty minutes.”
That word “usual” was a telltale, I thought.
I was nominally assigned to the 10th Mountain Division, and my uniforms reflected that. Major James had been clear on that. “You aren’t a Ranger, and you are not assigned to us. You are assigned to the 10th, and so you will remain — you are not a Ranger.” Then he’d elaborately winked at me.
Lord knows, I’d explained things often enough with the words, “You have no need to know, sir.” This was clearly the unspoken version of the same thing, and I took my early morning call to mean just that.
I was there on time, and sure enough, a helicopter landed in front of me. He’d dropped a flare and set down by its light. At the last second, I realized it wasn’t a venerable Loach, but an Apache.
I ducked down and sat down in the left seat. “How are they hanging, Major?” the pilot said with a laugh.
“Hey, I like this! I get to sit in front for a change!” The seats were staggered, and the second seat was actually forward of the pilot.
“You like the new bird? They said I was to go fast. But they wouldn’t let me have an armed bird — I asked.”
I tapped my side. “I’m armed.”
He laughed.
“Where is Winnie?” I asked after my usual pilot.
“She’s shacked up with some football guy. I was right to hand her over. I can’t tell you where we are going, but relax and enjoy the scenery.”
“It’s dark, O’Malley,” I said dryly.
He tapped his forehead, and for the first time, I saw the IR goggles. “I get to play with some really cool toys, Major! Just sit back, relax, and leave the driving to me.”
I hadn’t wanted to say anything. I had barely cinched my straps tight before we were lifting nearly straight up.
O’Malley laughed. “You should be glad you have me, Major. The course they originally wanted me to take was directly over Mt. Rainier. We’d have had to go to 17,000 feet to be safe. Colder than bejeezers, though, and we’d have to go on oxygen.
“I got them to let me go around in the dark — I didn’t look forward to flying over something that high I couldn’t see in the dark, bells and whistles regardless. Of course, they’ve routed us back right over it on the return. At least I can see the bugger then.”
O’Malley flew in silence for the next twenty minutes. He called up to me, “We can descend a bit, sir. I hope you didn’t get too cold.”
“Captain, when I was sixteen, my father sent me off to an uncle in Wyoming for a year. This is balmy, positively balmy, compared to that.” I’d hated Wyoming, I hated my uncle, and resented the hell out of being there. I went back to Hawaii at the end of the school year, having graduated from high school in three years, not four.
I was never warm a single day the whole time I was in Wyoming. My uncle’s ranch was at 8000 feet, and there was still snow on the ground in late June — and it returned in September.
O’Malley laughed. “I’m from Indio — snow isn’t my friend.” He turned serious. “Our flight plan puts us where we are going about 0700; we’ll be on the ground less than fifteen minutes for fuel and your package. We are due back at 1000.
“I kid you not, Major. It could get sporty. There’s an Arctic Express cold front due to arrive at 1100 — and a Pineapple Clipper due in at the same time. That’s what the weather boffins say. I’ve seen those fronts come in twelve hours early — or get sidetracked to Alberta.”
I was stupid; I laughed. “Well, I see stars, O’Malley. It’s not likely to be twelve hours early.”
It disturbed me. I could hear the tension in his voice. “Alberta is used to this crap,” I joked, trying to ease the sudden tension.
Dawn wasn’t as painful as I expected. The sun was coming up to the northeast, and we were headed southeast. The sky ahead of us was crystal clear. We were headed for the Hermiston stop, I decided. I could see how fast we were going and knew the distances.
We set up like we usually did for the Hermiston airport. I wasn’t paying any attention to what O’Malley was saying to the tower — that was a mistake.
We flared about fifty feet above ground, turned southwest, and, if anything, picked up speed. “That guy in the tower hates me,” O’Malley said. “He has to do what he’s told, even if he hates it. Still, it’s not like they get much traffic at this time of day.”
Bluntly, I was terrified. Dreams of flying are nothing compared to the waking nightmare of flying nap of the earth at a hundred feet at three hundred miles an hour!
We landed at a field with just an air sock and a building about the size of a utility closet. There was a man standing in front of the closet, and we landed about fifty feet away from him. A fuel truck appeared, and two men hauled a hose to the chopper. It was clear they were trying to work as fast as possible.
I took a metal briefcase, like all the rest I’d gotten, this time from an oriental man in a suit and not an army officer. I latched it to my wrist and got a thumbs-up. No one had ever said a word to me as I transferred the case to my arm; this man did. “Whatever you do, Major, don’t lose this one!” Then he whirled and headed away.
The fueling took little more time than the case took; we were on the way in ten minutes according to my watch. When we went up, the sun was slightly higher in the sky, and I could see some large buildings silhouetted against the sky. Quite suddenly, I knew where we were.
I turned to O’Malley, and before I said anything, he laughed. “You know that Kraut sergeant on Hogan’s Heroes? Colonel Mendoza made it a point. ‘I hear nussing! I see nussing! I know nussing!’”
My comment died in my throat. Umatilla had been where we stored our nation’s chemical weapons; they were supposed to have been incinerated and otherwise destroyed years before.
We stayed low back to Hermiston, then rapidly ascended to our flight altitude. “Back to the barn, sir. Then we can rest.”
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