Ryan, Miller and the rest of the squadron walked down through their barracks at the Baton Rouge Airbase, each man's kitbag safely stowed under his arm. Four days had passed since they had been told they were going to England, and then launching an attack on the largest concentration of naval forces in the world, using a weapon that had not been used in fifty years. The enormity of the operation was still sinking in when they found themselves ready to leave.
They walked onto the aircraft apron, and gave a slight stare at sixteen brand new Harriers, all clean and unscarred, that had just arrived. Ground crew were already preparing them for dispersal, refuelling their tanks, and loading various bombs and missiles upon the planes' numerous hardpoints. Ryan couldn't help thinking that the planes' pilots would probably be dead within a week or so.
This war had had a real effect upon Ryan. Before this war, even during the last war in Europe, he had always felt that the US was safe, that no one would
dare attack her sacred shores. He, and three hundred million Americans had been wrong, very wrong, and now the country was fighting with its back against the wall, sending man after man against a powerful and determined enemy, and just watching them collapse one after the other, on the battle field, in the hulls of warships, in planes plummeting to the ground thousands of feet below…he realised just how much war can hurt, how some things can happen to you and those you care about, things that you are helpless to stop. People's lives in the hands of others.
He hated war, like everyone else. All those comic books and films he saw that made it seem like such an adventure he now detested. There was nothing
glorious about war, nothing amazing about going out there to kill or be killed. He silently wondered whether or not his Russian counterpart felt the same. Then he realised he couldn't give a damn. He hated the Soviets, for ruining all those lives, destroying all those cities. What right did they have to come here and wipe out the things that he and every other American have strived to create, to nurture, and to grow. And for ruining his life. He never dreamed now, he just kept getting these terrifying nightmares of going down in a burning plane, not being able to eject, being burnt alive as his plane fell to the ground. He would try to scream, but the sound would never come…
Ryan soon banished these thoughts to the back of his mind as he approached a battered old C-130 parked on the opposite side of the apron. The plane itself had seen a lot of combat. Patched up bullet holes and scorch marks bore witness to numerous missions. He walked the rear ramp of the aircraft, and sat down in the back row of a number of seats that had been installed in the 130's cargo hold. His entire squadron managed to fit into one row. There were a considerable number of other people in the cargo hold. They were all sleeping, and they were all female. Ryan blinked, and then rubbed his eyes to make sure. Yep, he was right. There must have been fifty or so, all either sleeping or chatting lazily to each other. Ryan tapped the shoulder of the woman in front of him. She seemed about twenty five or so, and had brown, shoulder length hair. She turned round slowly, and yawned, her eyes blinking as they got used to the light.
"Wa', what do you want?" She mumbled, in a British accent. She didn't look too pleased at Ryan for waking her up.
"Erm, hello, I'm Ryan, Captain John Ryan, I'm with the 53rd, and, may I ask, who are you?" Ryan stuttered, unsure of how to put his question. To his surprise, she smiled, and gave a tired sigh.
"I'm Julie Walters, I'm a ferry pilot with the RAF, my friends and I have just delivered forty-eight Harriers to you lot. We've just flown all the way over the Atlantic, and we are so tired…"
"I'm sorry for waking you."
"Oh, don't be silly, trust me, its nice to talk to someone different occasionally. And who are your charming friends?" She tilted her head towards the rest of the 53rd.
"That's Lieutenant Peter Fisher, and Mark Daniels," he pointed to the shaven headed guy next to Fisher, "that's Michael O'Brien, and that's Paul Galloway." He stopped talking and looked down at Julie. She looked like an angel to him. Her face was framed beautifully by her black hair and dark green uniform, and he smiled as she tried hopelessly to push a stray hair from her forehead. Maybe this wasn't going to be so bad he thought.
"Lovely, nice to meet you all. So, what are you guys doing coming over to old Blighty then?" She asked, subtly eying up Ryan properly.
"Top secret mission, I'm afraid to say."
"Oh, I see. So, how long you going to be over in England."
"Not sure, but I'm sure I'm going to enjoy my stay." He paused, staring intently at Julie.
"I bet, anyway I need to get some sleep. Wake me up before we land please?" She then turned back into her own seat, and within a minute had gone to sleep. Daniels pulled out a set of cards and started dealing them. Pretty soon the five men were immersed in a poker game, stopped only when the aircraft took off from the runway, causing the cards to fly over the rear of the cargo hold, much to the annoyance of the group.
After an hour of the flight, Ryan had lost both his patience and his money on the poker game, and rummaged through his kitbag for a copy of 'Bill Bryson's Notes From A Small Island' that his sister had given him for a present when he said he was going away. He slowly read through the book, only looking up when some explosions from a far off battle seemed to rattle the aircraft. They soon subsided, and Ryan went back to his reading. Another hour or so passed, and he decided to go to sleep for a few hours. The other guys had finished their game, with only O'Brien looking happy, a large number of dollar bills in his hand.
Ryan was woken up five hours later by Fisher, and Ryan himself could feel the aircraft descending. He packed away his book into his kitbag, recovered his 'select' magazine collection from Daniels, and remembering his promise, woke up Julie. She gave a tired 'thank you' before doing up her landing belt.
Ten minutes later the plane landed. After a couple of minutes of taxiing, the rear ramp fell down revealing a quickly darkening horizon, the last traces of light fleeing over the grassy hills in the background. As Ryan descended the ramp, however, something else caught his attention.
Sitting on the rest of the airbase's apron was literally hundreds of aircraft. Every one of them was painted in USAF colours. There were at least six or seven dozen Harrier III's, along with a similar number of F-18's and F-22's. All had long range fuel tanks fitted on their weapon pylons. In the background, there were twenty or so B-2 bombers, all powered up and lining alongside the runway, getting ready to take off.
"Like them?" Said a familiar female voice behind him. "They are what we are flying over to the States. B-2's, Harriers, Rapiers, Hornets, and Globemasters. We build them here and ship them over as soon as we can. After all, we know you can fight, so long as you have the equipment to do it with."
"Ya mean," began Galloway, "the 'planes we fly over there in the States are from here?"
"Some of them, certainly the newer machines, and they are also some from France, West Germany and Italy…"
"I aint never washing my pants again." Muttered O'Brien. Everyone else stared at him. "What?"
"Never mind." Sighed Julie. She turned to Ryan. "Tell you what, when you've finished debriefing, meet me at the officer's mess. Okay?" Ryan nodded. He watched her walk away with her female colleagues.
"Wow, cap, looks like you got that one…" Laughed Fisher, who smacked Ryan in the middle of the back. "Remember though, before you start sampling the locals, we have a job to do. Remember that you're an American."
"Okay" Muttered Ryan, who had just spotted an officer calling them over. "Come on, I don't want to freeze out here." Five minutes passed quickly, and soon enough they were in a Briefing room. Sitting in seven of the seats, were seven other pilots, each of them wearing an RAF uniform, and all staring beadily at their American counterparts.
"Welcome," began the officer that had called the men together. "My name and rank is Group Captain Wosley. You, gentlemen, are now officially number 1 squadron, AAFSOU." Neither the British or American pilots looked particularly ecstatic. "Well, during the next two weeks, whether you like it or not, you will spend in each other's company. You will eat, drink, socialise, fly, fight, and, if necessary die with each other, so get used to it." He stared meaningfully at the whole group. "Remember what is at stake here, okay? No 53 squadron, you will be sharing no 617's old quarters, I'm sure our guys would be more than happy to show where to drop off your things. Breakfast is in the officers mess at 7:00 hours, and I expect you all here at 7:45 hours. Any problems?" There were a few quiet murmurs of protest. "Good, 'night Gentlemen, see you tomorrow." He then turned, and promptly left.
"Well" said one of the British airmen. "We better sort you out. Follow us please, unless you want to sleep in a hanger." He then went out the same door as the Captain, followed by the rest of the 617th, and lastly the 53rd, who struggled behind with their kitbags. After a couple of minutes, they arrived at a door, obviously a dormitory, and they all went inside. The American airmen were shown five ready made beds. After they had dumped their kit at the end of their beds, they were lead to the officers mess. Julie spotted Ryan and pulled him down to a table she was sitting at. Two freshly opened beers had been placed upon it, and she invited him to take one. They soon got talking, and after Julie revealed she was flying an F-22 over to the US the next morning, they decided to 'retire' to another part of the base.
They hurried through the maze of workshops and hangers that littered the base, before finding an unused air-raid shelter. They crept silently inside, and began to softly kiss each other. After a while, they were both undressed and moving themselves slowly all over each other. After an hour or so, they both drifted off in each others arms.