The Night Is Mine

Chapter 18

18

Penetrating the security at Anacostia Naval Support Facility had been a pleasure. Much quieter than Andrews, this was the forward base of the nation’s VIP helos. Most of the helicopters of HMX-1 were parked at Quantico. But a full flight of birds were kept here, close to downtown, in case there was an urgent call for a Marine One flight.

Military security, even one run by mere Marines, was like old home week. Emily moved slowly inward through increasing levels, until finally only hangar-authorized personnel remained.

She stepped through the door and was home. The rising sun rammed into the hangar through the wide-open main doors, catching a thousand dust motes dancing over ten helos. A stiff breeze pushed against her as the open hangar doors funneled every bit of dew-fresh air through this small rear entrance. Along the way, the breeze picked up the smells of her life. The JP-5 kerosene fuel, a sharp tang over the sweet slap of fresh hydraulic fluid, and the bleach off the sparkling clean concrete were old friends.

Only standing here, in this moment, did she know what had been missing. The White House was sterile. Purged, vacuumed, and polished every night. Efficient ventilation cleared away cooking smells before they had a chance to waft out of the kitchen.

It felt safe here, well protected. Home.

A Marine sergeant posted in the shadows inside the door saluted, with his other hand close by his weapon. She returned the salute. Not until this moment had she understood the emptiness inside her. She’d turned homesick in two measly days.

“I’m here for a flight check with Eddie,” Emily informed him.

“Please stay here, sir.” The military still hadn’t consistently adopted “Ma’am” or “Miss.” He pointed at the ground.

A wide, red line boxed in the six-by-six-foot area she was allowed to occupy. She dropped her flight gear-bag by her feet and settled into parade rest. Once she nodded her assent, he trotted over to a group of five men conferring over a disassembled rotor shaft. Ten feet of gleaming hardware; looked like a Cobra. Sure enough, a gutted AH-1W SuperCobra squatted against the back wall—though what it was doing in the Marine One hangar she had no idea. Carts and carts of pieces all carefully racked for an overhaul inspection. She’d never flown the Super. It was the greyhound of gunships. Not well suited to covert operations as it was all weapon and no transport. Too inflexible a tool for SOAR, but so quick and fast that it made a welcome guest whenever the going turned ugly.

The Marine snapped to attention and saluted smartly to one of them. “Air Captain Beale for a ‘flight check with Eddie,’ sir.”

The man separated himself from the group and approached. Stiff, graying, stony faced, erect as one would expect from… his insignia came into view, from a brigadier general.

She shifted back to full attention.

“Captain!”

“General!” If a general offered snap in his or her salute, you returned snap. It felt good to be back in her dress blues. Back in a world she understood. The scent of fuel and grease swirled around her in a particularly strong gust that didn’t cause the man to so much as shift his weight. There were no overtones of cordite from spent ammo or dust from the desert, but aviation was definitely going on here. The hangar echoed from being clean and tidy. Even the grunts were in spotless coveralls. The jets, the small one that had run her across the ocean and the monster 747s and 757s used for Air Force One and Two, were over at Andrews. Only rotorcraft lived here which provided a nice, cozy feel.

“I’m looking for Eddie. I’m due for a flight test, sir.”

“Brigadier General Edward Arnson to you, Captain.” The man ground it out with a voice that could drive nails.

“Yes sir!” She saluted again because she didn’t know what else to do. Eddie? Only the First Lady could call a Marine Corps one-star “Eddie” and get away with it. That was a hole she’d not be digging out of anytime soon. And he’d be giving the flight test? That took the wind right out of her. She’d failed, and she hadn’t been near a helicopter yet.

“Prep the bird over there for flight.”

“Yes sir!” Emily saluted again. Not a glimmer of anything. She moved off at a fast trot. You’re in it now, Beale, up to your neck. Doing a preflight in full service uniform was asking for trouble—nothing was attracted to a set of dress blues as strongly as permanently staining oil. A bad morning was dying to get worse… and succeeding.

Once she looked over the three thousand kilos of flying death, Emily felt less grumpy. It was the cleanest bird she’d ever seen, parked on a concrete floor so polished she could see the Bell Huey’s wavy reflection off the sealant. They didn’t come out of the factory this clean, and this had to be twenty-five years old, based on its equipment.

There were patches over a couple of bullet holes. They were typically left visible instead of being touched up. A badge of honor for the bird that had been wounded but dragged its crew to safety. That placed it as a bird that had seen action in its day. Make that over thirty-five years ago to have flown in ’Nam.

This was no carriage for the First Lady’s joy ride. This was a weapon of war, one she knew better than she knew the bedroom she’d grown up in. Her first military machine, the Green Hornet. It was also a museum piece. It was perfect; it shone.

She started her circle at the pilot’s door. Wheel pressure okay. No fluid seeping around the brake. The plastic tube of the fuel tester she’d taken from inside the pilot’s door out of pure habit rested in her hand. She poked its metal probe into the bottom of the right-hand tank. A bit of water always accumulated in the tanks from condensation. That could be a real problem in the sudden temperature changes from hot desert sun to the chill nights. Here in DC, there shouldn’t be enough water in this immaculate bird to show in the tester.

Half a cup with no line of gas floating on water. Clear as could be and not the straw color she’d expected. She sniffed it cautiously. Pure water without a hint of the kerosene that made up most of jet-propulsion fuel and could make your nose feel as if it had swallowed a porcupine.

She fetched a handy, fire-red safety bucket and poured her water in.

Half a gallon later, decanted a half-cup at a time, she finally struck fuel.

So, it was going to be that sort of a test. A joker had poured water into the starboard fuel tank especially for her sake. Beginner stuff.

She continued her inspection as if nothing was amiss. Fourteen problems cataloged by the time she finished her preflight inspection.

“Fourteen failures, sir,” she reported at the general’s sudden appearance.

“You didn’t use the preflight checklist.” It was a bark, not a question.

“Memorized it, sir. Hazardous to show a flashlight against a white checklist during nighttime preflight inside a battle zone. I keep a running count of steps to make sure I don’t miss anything. One-hundred-and-thirty-two primary points of inspection.” It came out all in one breath. She did her best to hide her gasp for air at the end.

He harrumphed. Not happily.

“Fourteen failures, you say? There were only twelve.”

She listed them, from water in the tank to the pebble jammed in the rear rotor.

“Johnson!” He snapped out and a young airman came running.

“List those again, Miss.” On this side of the line she was Captain, not Miss, but she wasn’t about to correct a brigadier general, especially not after calling him Eddie.

She repeated them in the same order she’d seen them, noting the three she hadn’t fixed for lack of tools and the one she’d been too disgusted by.

“Spare ammo case for the M60 loaded backwards?” The corporal stopped her halfway through. “There’s only one way to load it.”

She’d heard of gunners who’d died for that mistake, whose ships had died for that mistake. She led him to the right-hand side door and climbed into the gunner’s sling chair so that she sat behind the gun, looking down at the two men. She grabbed both handles of the machine gun, a necessity when the craft was tipped over sixty degrees and turning for bear. She didn’t don the harness that let the gunner stay put when going vertical; they were parked on the perfect hangar floor after all.

A slap with her right hand popped open the weapon’s breech. Simultaneously, with her left foot, she kicked open the spare ammo case bolted behind the pilot’s seat. Switching hands, Emily grabbed the belt of 7.62 mm cartridges and laid it across the breech. She left it dangling there. The cartridges were facing the gunner, not the outside world. The case was in its hold-down properly, but no one had checked that the ammo rested right way around inside the box.

“Give it a half twist.”

She saw the general flinch. Good.

“Half a twist in the belt and you increase the jam rate by a factor of ten. And a jam at the wrong moment is lethal.” The tech’s eyes went wide. What were they teaching these kids?

“Proceed.” General Arnson was watching her carefully, with an odd look on his face. Did he not like having one of his technicians shown up? Or was he like Henderson, yet another male who thought women only had one use? Well, she’d faced down fiercer men on the front line.

Still sitting behind the machine gun, she continued her list—

“A nick on the main-rotor hydraulic line? Are you sure?” The corporal glared at her as if she were a fool going out of her way to be insulting.

She climbed down and indicated the engine cowling she’d left folded back. It was a serious cut. Probably a tool slip rather than a bullet, considering the distance to the nearest war zone, but she’d rather not be airborne when that let loose.

“Well, I’ll be dam—”

“Marine!”

“Sir!” The man saluted the General and bolted away for his tools.

The General returned his attention to study her face and Emily suddenly wished she’d used more antiperspirant this morning.

His fierce glare held for a long moment, then he nodded.

“Well done, Captain. Shall we have a flight test in a more airworthy craft?”