Fly Into Black
by Michael G. Crawford
Chapter Five
Capt. "Crash" Richter scanned the orders with an increasingly sour disposition. He had grown used to the 1st Special Operations Wing at Hulbert Field, Florida. In fact, he had really begun to like living in Florida. At times the weather had reminded him of the "beach" he had lived on near Da Nang, Vietnam.
To be reassigned to Texas was a disaster in his mind. All that training for SOW operations would now be wasted. It was stupid. He certainly didn't care that he had been in one spot for four tours. Sixteen years between Fort Bragg and Hulbert Field didn't make him feel any less useful. He wondered for the thirteenth time whether he should finally opt for retirement.
He had survived eleven hairy helo crashes, thus his nickname. Maybe it was time to get out. Time to open up a tire shop or white water tour service. Lot's of ideas had come into his mind over the last twenty years in the US Army. But his thirst for action, and the numerous opportunities he had been given in the last twenty years had kept him in service. This all despite the falling pay, and just as rapidly falling "perks" of military service. He used to be able to buy a pair of blue jeans at 20 percent under the cost civilians paid. Today, he was lucky to get hamburger cheaper. The commissary, the Post Exchange, even the base gas station were barely competitive.
His pay, after twenty years in service, was beaten by anyone working their first three years in computer programming. He knew this because of his nephew Scott, who with a bachelors in Computer Science was dragging down more pay, with a retirement program almost as choice as his own. Hell by the time Scott was Kenny Richter's age, his nephew would most likely have invested his higher pay today into a wealth of real estate and plush autos. It already irritated Kenny that his nephew bought a new Porcshe every year, while he was relegated to his first and only sports car, the 73 Corvette.
Granted he kept his 'Vette pristine. But he couldn't convince himself that the two or three thousand he put into the Chevy zoomer every year was as rewarding as popping down to the Porsche dealer and trading in last year's S-car for this years beauty. At ten thousand a whack, Kenny never had a chance at forking over the money needed. His nephew though...
"Oh what the hell" he said out loud, his observer Carlston, grinned as he checked their six to make sure Army hadn't snuck up on them again. The low profile and quiet Apache helos had a nasty tendency to pop up from behind a ridge and shout "Guns guns guns!" when you least expected it. And with their carrying capability, no one doubted their ability to turn the simulation into real delivery of a swift death. The ungainly choppers could carry anything from tank busters to Sidewinder or Sparrow anti-aircraft missiles. They were the nemesis of the Nighthawks.
Kenny of course was at home in the Apache as in his Nighthawk. All the special forces helo pilots cross trained in all the choppers. One never knew what opportunities the world would present the air arms of special forces. Kenny could blast a terrorist with a Stoner M63 machine gun, deliver an "A" team into a blacked out landing zone using night glasses, or assault a heavy ground force with tiny bomblets from the pylons on his chopper. In flying he was expert in the RH-53D Super Jollys, the HH-60D Nighthawks, and absolutely deadly in the AH-64 Apache gunship. In fact he had taken the competition from his Army buddies two years in a row now. He was, he knew with certain pride, the best damn chopper jockey in any of the services.
"So why am I going to play border patrol" he thought to himself. He knew the terrorist situation was kicking up lately, but surely they weren't expecting a rush of terrorists across the border were they? It made little sense to him, and he had a sneaking suspicion that some asshole Army brass had decided to get him away from the Special Ops so his skills would deteriorate enough for the Army to take back the chopper competition. What a farse. How he hated to be the victim of politics after twenty years. Oh well, maybe he could set the record for capturing the most green-backs in a year. "Yahoo" he said out loud as he yawned.
"Se hablo de Engleeesh" questioned the border guard.
"Nada" was the only reply, and Officer Jerry Daniels sighed. Number 3,430, this one. At least the character wasn't a mule, carrying dope into the U.S. across the loose southern borders of the U.S.
The I.N.S. simply asked them if they wanted a hearing, and when they refused, they would be trucked back to a special receiving station across the U.S./Mexican border. Tomorrow, this same hombre would be trying the crossing again.
"Get in the truck" Jerry said in Spanish, and the tall dark skin man slumped his shoulders and joined his compadres in the INS van for the one hour drive to the overnight detention center. Jerry looked into the van at the poor souls, and wondered for the thousandth time, "How many of these people will get through tomorrow, and how many of them are here for the opportunity.
Like several of his peers, Jerry was a little worried over the huge increase in world terrorism, and the possible effects it would have on their job as border patrol. Someday a terrorist was going to be crossing from the South, and Jerry frankly could not see how anyone could stop them. Most likely a band of twenty or so could cross, quite easily.
Hell maybe even hundreds.