The Only War They Had
by
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For a moment First Lieutenant BJ Parker held the center of the universe. Like a winged god he held the center and arranged the world in concentric circles about his head. The deep blue arch of sky above, the purple horizon, the green and red and brown checkered dish of earth below. Like a god he turned it all about his head and set the sky beneath his feet, then turned it back. From his seat at the center he drew the sun in a searing circle across the clear, curved surface of his canopy. His helmet baked in the glare then cooled in the shade. A tinted visor cut the glare. Earphones delivered the static hiss of intercom to his brain. A slick green rubber mask covered his mouth and nose and enriched the thin air with oxygen. At the center of the circle his brain demanded and devoured oxygen. At the center of the circle his brain processed rotating circular images and static hiss and the crackling electric arc of Lieutenant Pete Kruger’s voice snapping from the back seat:
"Parker, what are you doing?"
"Sir?"
"What the f--- are you doing?"
"A roll. An aileron roll."
"Why are you wasting our time with an aileron roll?"
"Getting in position for a cloverleaf, sir. I didn’t want to just . . . drive straight and level."
"Take her home, Parker."
"Sir?"
"Take her back to base. We need to shoot some landings."
"Now?"
"Parker, Check Section won’t wash you out for your puking aerobatics. Check Section’ll love this smooth s---. But aerobatics don’t mean cheese if you can’t land. Head back to Reese."
BJ pressed the stick left and banked into a level turn.
"Rack this aircraft, Parker! I didn’t bring you out here to dance. This aircraft is a weapon of war, not a goddamn pussy airliner."
"Yes sir!" BJ snapped the wings vertical and hauled back on the stick to hold the nose on the horizon. G-forces pressed him into the seat cushion and seared two long red welts where the elastic of his jockey shorts rubbed the backs of his sweaty thighs. His G-suit expanded. Bladders inflated against his thighs and calves and squeezed his belly. Straps and belts and buckles and harnesses pinned him to his ejection seat. Red and green rectangles pivoted beneath his wingtip. A bead of sweat trickled off his forehead and stung his eye.
"I don’t care for smooth, Parker. Smooth don’t mean cheese to me."
"Yes sir."
"T38’s a lot like a girl, Parker, did I ever tell you that?"
"Yes sir. You told me."
"Lot like a girl. You have to dominate this aircraft, Parker. Like a girl. Keep her flat on her back with your boot on her throat or she’ll cut your nuts out."
"Yes sir, you told me."
BJ snap-rolled out of the turn and lifted his throttle hand to his stinging eye. The back of his glove bounced off his visor.
A sliver of blacktop angled across the high flat plain of West Texas and disappeared on the purple horizon. Forty miles away on the horizon at the end of the blacktop a tiny white cluster of grain elevators at Ropesville, Texas, marked the entry point for T38 traffic to Runway Three-Six Left at Reese Air Force Base. BJ closed his left hand on the throttles and eased back to idle. He punched the speed brake button with his thumb. The T38 shuddered and sank toward the highway.
"Some of your classmates already soloed, Manny. You have to get this girl on the ground."
BJ ran a dry tongue along the roof of his mouth. He wiped his gloves against his thighs, first the left, then the right. Ice fog spit from air vents on either side of the instrument panel. Tiny crystals raked his helmet and curled around the sunburned back of his neck. He blinked his stinging eye.
"Gotta get this girl on the ground," Kruger said, "or you can kiss your ass goodby."
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About the Book
First Lieutenant BJ Parker is halfway through Air Force pilot training, leading his class but losing his touch, and he can’t land the supersonic T38 jet trainer. BJ is a young man with a desperate need to measure up, and failure is unthinkable. He needs a savior.
Ryan Richter is an instructor pilot with the magic to save lost students. Ryan is eager to help, but he and BJ’s wife, Mary Clare, were teenage sweethearts, and BJ fears the old flame still smolders.
Mary Clare is the perfect little Air Force wife, committed to help her husband win his wings any way she can, but she has her own reasons to keep Ryan Richter at a distance. She has a secret she is determined that Ryan must never learn.
One more training flight with Pete Kruger, a celebrated warrior home from the skies over Hanoi and unhappy to be training weenies, leaves BJ drained and shaken, teetering at the edge of washout. He cannot let himself fail. Ryan Richter is his only hope. BJ makes a choice, a choice that turns his flying career around and all their lives upside down.
About the Author
Gary Jackson has been an Air Force pilot, a horseshoer, a hot tar roofing contractor, and a construction manager. He lives with his wife, Lynda, and mother-in-law on a desert hillside overlooking Tucson.