2-North
RAF Lakenheath
6 August 1985
0443 Local/0443 Zulu
Daria awoke from her Air Force issue cot for the fifth time that night, or as she glanced with a scowl on her face at her Timex watch, morning. Didn't Churchill once say? "Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result." He didn't mention the bad dreams, or the insomnia, or the feeling of pins in one's stomach. I wonder if that's why he drank so damn much.
Daria shook the cobwebs from her head, she figured she got some sleep, and neither of them were on the flight roster till 0730, when they were supposed take off to pay a visit to a rail yard near Karl Marx Stadt. I wonder if Ivan will be surprised when we show up in broad daylight. Somehow, I doubt he'll care. At least the attack was part of a four-ship, which from Daria's point of view, was better, more targets to shoot at.
She glanced over at Jane, and saw her sound asleep, her light snoring almost making it seem like there wasn't a war on. How the hell does she do it? My hands shake, I can't sleep, and I have been going on coffee and oxygen from the aircraft. She acts as if it's another day at the office? I envy you mi amiga, I really do.
As Daria made for her flight boots, there came a loud, insistent rapping at the metal personnel door leading to the outside. Daria grabbed her black, Air Force issue .38 and contemplated it. Would Spetsnaz bother knocking? Probably not. Then again…She quickly threw on her flight boots and hefted the revolver in her right hand, holding it behind her back as she quickly moved to the door, a lump in her throat as she opened the door slightly.
She opened the door a crack, and shoved the Model 10 revolver through the gap. "Password, you got one chance or I give you a third nostril!"
The response was a derisive snort. Followed by a gravelly voice that sounded like a mix from a boombox full of feedback and a cement mixer, "Lieutenant, I saw your last range scores, if I really was Spetsnaz, we wouldn't be having this conversation, anyhow, the password is GLASS, countersign?"
Daria sighed, it was Captain Folkes, the squadron assistant operations officer, and he was right, Daria had barely qualified with her revolver. "TOPHAT". She relaxed as she opened the door the rest of the way. Captain Marius Folkes had dark ebon skin, with eyes that belied a lively intelligence. He was a man who spoke four languages, Russian, Spanish, Polish and Hungarian, but he was a man afflicted by a minor malady that had gotten him much in the way of derision in the Air Force, at least at first. Marius was 5'5 and barely made the height requirements. He was competing with Crimson for shortest aircrew member in the wing. But he was whipsmart, and had been bucking for an Air Attaché job in the Eastern Bloc before the war. Now, that seemed to be all in a cocked hat.
"Morning Captain Folkes, what brings you by today, is it the ambiance of our shelter, or the fact Wing is driving you insane and you needed to get away for a while?"
Folkes smiled, and pointed to the shoulders of his flight suit. Instead of the silver railroad tracks one found with a captain, there resided the gold oak leaves one found with a Major's rank.
Daria's eyes went wide, "Sorry Maj-"
Folkes waved away her apology, and found an empty work bench to sit at. "Really did want to make Major, not like this though, and I am going to do a horrible thing to you too, Captain."
Daria's brow furrowed…Wait a sec, I am not a cap- Oh Christ, it's been that bad.
Folkes reached into a pocket of his flight suit, and produced a gaggle of white boxes, with items jangling in them, brand new captains bars.
He tossed them to Daria, who barely caught them, with her exhaustion and confusion at being promoted so fast warring in her skull.
"Casualties, I have two flight leaders to replace, and god knows, I have to merge what is left of your flight, with another flight. They have two birds and crews left, and those kids have less experience than you."
Daria shook her head Surely this was a mistake. Me, Captain, flight leader? Jesus this is all going very damned wrong. "Sir, what about Grady and Robinson, they did a damn good job on the first day, especially leading us out of Grossenhein, and Grady is a Vietnam vet?"
Folkes shook his head, "Grady bought it three hours ago, was trying to bring back a damaged aircraft, and well, the engines gave out 1000ft short of the runway. He and Robinson ejected, capsule chute deployed, sort of..landed hard. Robinson is just being sent home with a broken back. Grady didn't make it, broke his neck. Simply put, Morgendorffer, I gotta promote you and Lane, I need people who even resemble the qualifications for flight leader at this point. Wing has taken 30% losses in two days of fighting. This keeps up, we won't be around in 4 more days."
Daria sat down on her cot with a start. "It is worse than any of us thought?"
Folkes exhaled, "Seems to be that way for both sides, there is a permanent close range dogfight going on just over the damn FEBA, and both sides only have a general idea of what's in the air right now. I think the guys on the ground are just lighting anything up that flies right now".
Daria spread her hands in supplication "Karl Marx Stadt still on?"
Folkes shrugged again "Yep, that and three other just like it, The Pact is moving and we are barely holding the line, though we are backpedaling as much as we can, trying not to get smashed under the Sov sledgehammer. SACEUR is screaming at COMFACCE to shut down the Soviet logistical effort, so, yeah, if we are not doing counter-air, we are going to be blowing the crap out of rail lines and bridges for the foreseeable future."
Daria grimaced and her hands shook imperceptibly, how much more courage and luck do I have left? Will my flight trust me to get the job done? We trusted the last two flight leaders, and both of them are dead, very dead.
Morgendorffer Home
Lawndale, Maryland
6 August, 1985
0317 Local/0713 GMT
Quinn Morgendorffer looked over her luggage one more time. The military had told her to pack light, no more than two bags weighing 10lbs each. She had packed one, and it was mostly clothing Daria had left behind, including her Doc Martens, Is it a sad statement I don't have a damn bit of practical outdoor clothing?
The trip down from NYC had been slow, and taken almost 24 hours, with Murray driving like a madman the entire time. He had almost collapsed just past Philadelphia. At Quinn's insistence, she and Murray had tried to find a hotel for the night, but they were all full of people just trying to get away from what they were convinced was the certain nuclear attack. A test of the EBS in one hotel Murray and Quinn had tried had caused a near panic, and a riot broke out. The best Murray and Quinn could do was get the hell out of there before the cab got stolen.
So, they'd settled for sleeping in the cab in the parking lot of a shopping mall ten miles north of the Maryland state line. When it was Quinn's turn to stand watch, she had gripped the .38 for dear life. The next morning, the drive was somewhat easier, but it still took until almost seven that day to get home. On July 27th, at seven in the evening, a bedraggled Quinn dragged her two suitcases, lighter than they had ever been in her life, through the door of her family home, Murray, even the gentleman, had only asked her for gas money, stating "Good deeds are a good idea right now, we may all be meeting him shortly."
The ten days Quinn had been home was an eye opener on how her parents were handling the stress of both international crisis, and then war. Her father, Jake, was jumping from one task to another to prepare the house for "the Apocalypse" and had gone and spent a fortune on what appeared to be the necessities, at least, according to the civil defense pamphlet that had shown up at the doorstep on the 1st.
Her mother, Helen, was the picture of calm as she simply moved money around to cover Jake's panic fueled largesse. Quinn knew she was scared though, because she simply let Jake rant, about the Soviets, about his daughter in danger, and about the fact that the world could be ending. Normally, Helen would stomp down on Jake hard, but this time, she said nothing, and sat quietly, while her hands shook like leaves.
By the 1st, Quinn knew she could not just sit in her family home and wait for the end. An impromptu "Fashion Club Reunion" at a local bar had done nothing to improve Quinn's spirits, and she had cursed herself for having done such a thing. Sandi was a waitress at a local steakhouse, married to a guy who was more than happy to live off of her, and do nothing to take care of the kids. Stacy however, had opened her own garage, and was proving to be very skilled at it, she had in fact, covered dinner for all of them, as the reunion had been more her idea than anyone else's. As for Tiffany, she had not shown up, citing the fact that her husband, a successful CPA, had thought it best to get out of town with the impending international situation, at least Stacy had been fun to talk to.
The job search had gone worse, as nobody wanted fashion writers, they wanted news copy…serendipity happened on the 4th. As Quinn and the rest of her family sat on the edge of their seats, breathlessly watching NBC broadcast grainy images of Europe tearing itself apart for the third time in a century, the phone rang.
Helen and Jake both gave Quinn the "answer it" look. She knew why. They are hoping they see Daria alive in some of the news footage. What's the chance of that?
The voice on the other end was one she had not heard from since high school, Jodie Landon, now Jodie Landon-Mckenzie. Quinn had missed the wedding, much to her later regret, but why call now? And wasn't Jodie in Germany with Mack, no, wait, she was evacuated…
Jodie's voice sounded clear, and without static, like it was across town, not across the ocean. Where is she calling me from?
"Hey Quinn, you have a few minutes to talk, I have a potential job offer for you. It won't be fashion writing, but I need somebody who can write."
"Sure Jodie, it beats sitting at home, where are you, by the way, and have you heard from Mack?"
"I am in Baltimore, at the main offices of the Sun, haven't heard from Mack since the 3rd. Right now I am working 12 hour days so I don't think about him. But, that's not why I called, ok?"
Quinn sensed it was best to leave things alone from this point, "Ok, you have peaked my interest, what do you have in mind"?
Jodie exhaled sharply "Quinn, our guy covering the air war in England got badly hurt in the first round of airstrikes. He may not make it, and DOD authorized me to send a replacement…finally. Anyhow, I know you can write and take care of yourself."
Quinn blanched, Jodie is making me a big offer, but I don't have any experience like this, and what about Mom and Dad. Dad's losing it over Daria being in harm's way, me too? Might just kill him…but dammit, this is a chance to not be stuck in the Fierce rut for the rest of my career! "Jodie, the answer is yes, what do I have to do?"
"Military is insisting that all correspondents attend one of their courses held at various posts. Nearest one to you is Fort Meade. It's 5 days long, and then off you go into the war zone. They will fill you in there. Be there no later than the 6th of August at 0830 and bring ID. No more than two bags, 10lbs each, and dress practical. Rest will be done there. Good luck, Quinn!" and with that Jodie hung up.
It occurred to Quinn at that moment that she had forgotten to ask Jodie how much the position paid.
When she told her parents, Jake exploded, demanding Quinn call back and quit. Quinn said she would do no such thing. That had sparked a huge fight where Quinn marched upstairs and slammed the door, with Quinn raiding Daria's old wardrobe to find some practical clothing, as Quinn seemed to lack items along those lines.
Fast forward to Quinn, sitting on her couch, waiting for a cab at three in the morning to take her to Fort Meade. She had cried, she tried to write several notes to her parents. What did you say? I love you, but my career matters, and I am going to war, even though I don't have to.
Quinn hoped she would go where she could tell the story right, it was the least she could do for her sister, and her buddies. What if I wind up at Lakenheath? That will be kinda awkward….a noise then disturbed Quinn's reverie. It was the sound of light footsteps, that could only belong to her mother.
Helen slipped into the living room like a ghost, clad in a white terri-cloth bathrobe and her hair done up in a hairclip. She was not her usual sartorial best, but at three in the morning, who was?
"Quinn honey, can we talk"?
Quinn nodded "I am not changing my mind, mom."
Helen sat on a chez lounge opposite the couch. "Wouldn't dream of it dear. Look, your father, for all of his many faults, and there are many…loves us all very much. To him, his father, whom he will never forgive, bred true in Daria. He kind of hoped the military tradition, such as it was, ended with you. And now, while you're going as a member of the press, you are still going to war. He is scared, scared he might lose you both."
"Why the hell not just say that!"
"It's your father dear, he never does that, He can't decide whether he is going to go to pieces, or be John Wayne. Right now, they are warring for his soul."
"So what do I do?"
Helen smiled and nodded. "Let him cool off, I will help there, and when you are leaving for the war zone, call before you go. Speak to him then. He will come around. Quinn, you and your sister are both great writers. I wish Daria was telling the story as well, but maybe she will get that chance after the war. At least, I hope she does." Helen's famous reserve finally broke, and she broke down, sobbing. Quinn wordlessly crossed the distance, and held her for what seemed like hours. She almost missed her cab.
Rail terminal 10km SSW of Karl Marx Stadt
Karl Marx Stadt, East Germany
6 August, 1985
1030 Local/0830 GMT
It had been a long tiring flight for Daria and Jane, they had taken off at 0730, and tanked over the North Sea 20 minutes later, then going low level down the Elbe and hanging a left in a somewhat straight line at 300 feet for the rail yard. Flak and SAMs had been intermittent, but one of the flight of four had gotten temporarily lost as he had guided off the wrong landmark.
But something had alerted the defenses they were coming..and it seemed everything bigger than an AK-47 in the area was coming up to greet them. Green tracer ripped apart the morning sky, dirty back puffs of flak exploded mostly above the aircraft, and the RWR beeped almost incessantly as a series of SAM and fighter radars attempted to lock onto them. Daria executed a series of Doppler turns, designed to break the radar search beams, but when one lost them, another seemed to come looking. It was bedlam, sheer bedlam.
Ok, there is a series of power lines 2 miles off the target to the West, so watch for them after my run, flak seems to be heaviest to the north, just like the prestrike photos said it would.
"Hanging in there, Sundance?"
Jane simply nodded, she was too busy trying to pick up the radar return for the rail yard and lock it into the bombing computer. She managed to do it quickly, giving a thumbs up as that was their agreed upon signal to begin their Bomb Run (Conventional) checklists.
The strike was simple, the aircraft would go to full speed, pop up to 500 feet and release a lay down attack of 24 Mk 82 Snakeye 500lb bombs with fuse extenders. The aircraft began to buffet and buck between the low altitude turbulence and the flak exploding all around, a stream of 23mm whipping 50 feet in front of the nose. All Daria could so is concentrate and wait fore the signal from Jane to popup.
Three
Two
One
Daria jammed the throttles to their stops, and the engines screamed in protest, pressing both Jane and Daria into their seats. Jane managed to keep a grip on the radar hood, as Daria topped the airplane out at 500 feet. She was rewarded with a panoramic view of the rail yard stretching out before her. More tracers erupted from the ground, and an SA-7 vomited forth on a gout of smoke and flame, but missed, decoyed by the flare program triggered just before the popup.
The computer had the solution, as a light on the panel demonstrated, and Daria mashed the pickle button, with a series of thumps as the F-111 leapt higher, being relieved of the weight of its deadly cargo. The F-111 had been over the target a matter of three seconds at most. To Daria and Jane, it had felt like an eternity.
The 24 bombs each fell individually, in a line a quarter mile long. The fuse extenders were there to ensure that at the low altitude the bombs were being dropped, that indeed, they went off, as below 1000 feet, Mk 82s tended to have an iffy detonation rate, as the Argentinians had found out during the Falklands War. They detonated with the force of 192 lbs of explosive, and two had the misfortune to fall directly onto a Soviet ammunition train, which began a rather huge conflagration. The other three F-111s came from different directions of the compass, and at different drop heights to confuse the defenses. All of them used the burning ammunition train as an aiming point.
It was another day at the office for Daria and Jane.