Post by lordroel on Oct 22, 2024 17:32:04 GMT
Posted with permission of Matt Wiser over at HPCA: Last Eastern Express: Moreau's Story
The last EASTERN EXPRESS strike mission... and I'm sure everyone recognizes both the pilot and strike lead....
Last Eastern Express: Moreau's Story
SAC Operations HQ: RAF Kai Tak, Hong Kong, 14 October, 1989,1700 Local Time (0200 Pacific War Time)
Captain Cindy Moreau of the 325th Bomb Squadron, 92nd Bomb Wing, stared at the briefing board. She and two other crews from the 325th had flown a Trans-Pacific from Fairchild to Hong Kong two days earlier, and after the mandatory crew rest, they were getting ready for yet another EASTERN EXPRESS mission. Exactly what their target was, they didn't yet know, but she, and the other two aircraft commanders-one of whom was Major Bill Cassidy, her former AC and the squadron's Executive Officer, hadn't yet been told, along with the rest of the crews. To make matters even more complicated, there were rumors of a cease-fire going around Fairchild when they left, just after a bunch of TAC F-4s had arrived, and the last thing they wanted was to be in the air, over Russia, when a cease-fire was called, for Voyska PVO, the Soviet Air Defense Force, might not be...willing to let them go, just like that. She was talking about that with Major Cassidy and Capt. Mike Austin, the other AC, when the Briefing officer came into the room, and all the crews came to attention. “Have a seat, people,” the Colonel said. “Let's get down to business.”
Everyone sat, and the Colonel unveiled the briefing boards. “Here's your target: Irkutsk.”
All of the crews looked at each other. Oh, boy. Irkutsk was a hairy one, and not just because of the oil refinery or the industry, not to mention the location on the Trans-Siberian Railroad,, but because to the northwest of the city, there was an SS-20 IRBM base and a reported SS-25 ICBM base. There were SA-2, SA-3, and SA-5 sites in the area, a full regiment from Voyska PVO, and even AA sites, for many older reservists had been recalled as the war went on, and they manned 85-mm and 100-mm AA guns. A night flight was the best of all, for the AAA was known to be manually aimed, and if they couldn't see you.....
“All right,” the Colonel said. He turned to Major Cassidy. “Robber Three-One, your target is the main railroad yard. Try and lay your bombs across the switching station, as well as the workshops. The more cuts on the line, the better.”
Cassidy nodded. He'd done this several times before, at Ulan-Ude, Chita, and several points west.
“Robber Three-Two,” the Colonel said, catching Captain Austin's attention. “For you, the oil refinery at Angarsk. Your main target there is the cat cracker, and see if you can't walk some of your bombs across the POL storage.”
Austin nodded.
“Now, saving the best for last: Robber Three-Three.” the Colonel said, and Moreau could see he was staring right at her. “Irkutsk Northwest Airfield. This isn't a military base, nor is it the local civilian airport. It's the factory field for an aviation plant, and this is the final assembly plant for Su-27s. Put your bombs on the ramp, and just walk them into the factory. Knock it out for a while, and no more Flankers, simple as that.”
Simple as that? Then why don't you come along for the ride? That feeling was universal among combat aircrews, regardless of service. The briefers rarely went out and got their hands dirty, and since most, if not all, were spooks, the crews knew the saying “We're betting your life.” Moreau nodded, and turned to her copilot, 1st Lt. Cody McDonald. Both simply nodded.
“All right: questions?” The Colonel asked.
“Weather?” Cassidy's Navigator asked.
“Over China, cloudy for the most part. You won't hit clear weather until you hit the Soviet border area. Irkutsk proper should be clear, visibility about ten miles, ceiling unlimited. It'll be a cool night, and your FLIR should have optimum performance.”
“What about threats?” Moreau asked.
Cassidy looked at her. “Good question.”
“The usual,” the briefer replied. “There's an SA-2 brigade, with two SA-3 battalions, and at least three SA-5 sites as well. The airfield at Belaya has a PVO Regiment with Tu-128s, but be advised that imagery shows MiG-31s there as well: no idea if they're converting, or if this is a new Regiment. The bombers, though, are still there. Then there's the AAA: 85-mm and 100-mm, but they're optically guided, and at night, they shouldn't be a problem for you.”
Easy for you to say, Moreau thought.
“And post-strike?” Austin asked.
“Your egress takes you over Mongolia, and remember they're Soviet allied, though their own air defense is pretty sparse. Once you're clear and across the Chinese border, you should be OK. Climb to altitude, and get out to the East China Sea. Your post-strike refueling will be east of where Shanghai used to be. If the tankers don't make it for whatever reason, Kadena is your primary divert, though Taipei will do if you have the fuel.” The Colonel looked the crews over. “Any other questions?” There were none. “All right: get prepped, because wheels up in an hour.”
Eight Hours Later: west of Irkutsk, USSR, 0200 Local Time, 15 October, 1989 (1000 Pacific War Time):
Robber Flight was now at low-level, heading into hostile territory. Occasionally, the bombers had popped up, to clear terrain or power lines, and had picked up Soviet air-defense radars. The Chinese had fired some of the MRBMs and IRBMs before they were blasted, and several gaps had been blown in the Soviet air defense network, and those gaps had only been partially filled. SAC had quickly taken advantage, and instead flying bombers over the pole, SAC and then the RAF had gone in the back door..
Inside Robber Three-Three, Moreau was talking with her navigator, Capt. Robin Cloke. “Time to IP?”
“Three minutes, Pilot.”
“All right, get out the checklists: Bomb Run (Conventional), and time to go to work.” Moreau called.
The bombers were coming in at thirty-second intervals, and she knew that Three-One, Major Cassidy, was getting ready to go in. He had been her AC upon joining the bomber force, and they had flown for a year before she upgraded to AC herself.
A minute and a half later, Cassidy called, “Three-One in hot.” Time to go to work.
“EWO, Pilot, get those jammers warmed up, because we'll need 'em. Chaff and flare program on my mark.” Moreau called 1st Lt. Keith Hudson, the EWO.
“Roger that,” EWO called back.
“Gunner, get ready.”
“Guns ready,” Staff Sgt. Paul McClure said. He was the Buff's gunner, and on another crew, he'd splashed an Su-15 with his Vulcan. He was one of several gunners in the squadron who had kills, and he was eager for another.
The radio crackled again. “Three-Two's in.”
Thirty seconds later: “Initial Point,” Cloke called.
“Coming to one-four zero.” Moreau called. “Jammers up!” Then she made her radio call, “Three-Three in hot.”
“Roger that,” Hudson called.
“Look at that!” Cory McDonald called. Up ahead, multiple explosions went off as Three-One laid its bombs on the rail yard. Then several huge fireballs erupted as Three-Two hit the oil refinery.
“Pilot, EW,” Hudson said. “All sorts of radars coming up. SA-2, SA-3, air-search.”
“Jam the shit out of them,” Moreau said. “Radar?”
Capt. Kevin Radnor, the Radar Navigator, or bombardier, was on the line. “Thirty seconds to bomb release. Altitude four hundred feet AGL, release airspeed 385 knots, escape heading straight through one-four-zero degrees.”
“Roger that,” Moreau called as she pulled the aircraft up from to two hundred feet AGL to four hundred.
McDonald was watching the FLIR. “Field in sight. Target in sight.”
“Copy. Bomb bay doors open. Bombs armed.”
“Steady, steady,” Radnor called, watching his radar display. He had a radar map of the target, “We're right down the centerline. Fifteen seconds.”
“Stand by.” Moreau said.
“Hack in five, four, three, two, one, HACK!”
Moreau hit her bomb release, just as Radnor did. And fifty-one five-hundred pound Mark-82 bombs came out of Three-Three's bomb bay,and the external racks. The Mark-82s were the Snakeye types, enabling low-altitude delivery. The externally carried bombs also had fuze extenders, called “Daisy Cutters,”and they went off above the ground, and they went first, followed by the regular Snakeyes.
“Bombs Away!” Moreau called.
“Chaff and Flare program into automatic,” the EWO called.
Down below, the Sukhoi Factory had no warning at all. The sirens didn't sound until after the first B-52 had made its run, and many of the workers, having heard more false alarms than real ones, were a bit lax in heading to the shelters. A few workers, checking on several Su-27s parked on the ramp, awaiting delivery to either the Air Force or the Voyska PVO, heard it first, then, in the glow of the exploding Angarsk refinery, they saw the outline of a B-52 headed southeast. Then, a dark shadow appeared over them, from which hell on earth came as the bombs exploded on the ramp, and marched into the factory.
A dozen bombs fell on the ramp, two hit the runway, and most of the rest fell within the factory itself. Explosions and fire soon followed, and the Sukhoi plant was out of commission.
“Bomb bay doors closing,” Radnor reported.
“Roger that,” Moreau said. “EW, keep the chaff and flares coming, but stop when you get to twenty-five percent. Save some for getting over the border.”
“Copy,” Hudson replied. “Nothing locking onto us, but there's SA-2 and -5 all up.”
“MiGs?”
“Nothing.”
Unknown to the B-52 crews, the Voyska PVO Regiment at Belaya was having trouble getting off the ground. Though they were in the middle of converting from the Tu-128 to the MiG-31, they did have several of each sitting on alert. To make matters worse from the Soviet point of view, the Backfire bombers based there were suddenly ordered into the air to clear the field, for the bomber commanders did not want their aircraft caught on the ground if there was a second wave. Thus, several Backfires were taxiing into position for takeoff when two Tu-128s and two MiG-31s also began taxiing from the V-PVO side of the base. And a shouting match was developing between the V-PVO commander and the Major General commanding the 31st Heavy Bomber Aviation Division.
While the Air Force and the PVO were arguing, and a hapless Political Officer was trying to mediate between an angry General and a hot-tempered PVO Colonel, a Backfire started its takeoff roll. Just then, two MiG-31s started theirs from the opposite end of the runway. The lead MiG pilot didn't see the Backfire, but his wingman did, and aborted his roll, while the Backfire pilot and copilot tried to take evasive action. It was too late: the MiG was clipped by the Backfire's left wing, and both rolled away: the MiG crashed onto the ramp, killing both crewmen, while the Backfire's crew ejected immediately, with their aircraft pulling up, stalling, then plunging to the runway below, exploding in a ball of fire.
“Radars dropping off,” Hudson reported as Three-Three flew to the southeast.
“Roger that. Kill the jammer, chaff and flare program,” said Moreau.
“Copy.”
Moreau took off her oxygen mask, and that was the signal for the others to do the same. They weren't home-free just yet, but once clear of the target area, they could relax. But only for a little. The Buff was still in enemy territory, and all manner of threats could still be out there. “Want to take it?” She asked Cody.
“Copilot's airplane.” he called back. “Whew.”
“You said it,” Hudson called. “One more run to the end of the war.”
“For all we know, this cease-fire talk may be just that,” Moreau reminded her crew. “Stay alert, people.”
The crew nodded, and the Navigator called, “Twenty minutes to the border.” She meant the Mongolian border. That was still enemy territory, for there were Soviet troops based there, including Air Force and V-PVO. It would be another ninety minutes after that before they were clear of enemy territory, and over the (relative) safety of China, or what used to be China.
Two hours later, Moreau began climbing back to cruise altitude. And on radar, she and the radar nav could see the other two aircraft ahead of them. Robber flight had made it.
Approaching the Washington Coast, 14 October, 1985, 2000 Pacific War Time.
Robber Three-Three was at 35,000 feet, and heading for Fairchild. They were the only ones of the flight to make the entire Trans-Pacific return leg, though. Cassidy in Three-One had a foul-up with the tanker rendezvous, and he had diverted to Kadena AB on Okinawa. Three-Two had made its tanker, but a second meet over the Pacific had been blown, whether it was due to tanker trouble or someone's navigation being off, so they landed their Buff at Wake. But Moreau's bird had made their two meetups, and they were now approaching the Washington Coastline. The crew was tired after so many hours in the air, their EASTERN EXPRESS tour was over, and after some time off, they'd be either sitting nuclear alert or flying conventional missions in support of the Canadian Theater.
Moreau was taking a nap in the bunk in front of the EWO's station, while Cody flew the airplane. The EWO and gunner, their work done, simply leaned back in their ejection seats as best they could and fell asleep. Down below, the nav was still working, while Radnor, his job also done, also took a nap. Then Cody called the EWO. “Wake up Captain Moreau. NOW!”
“Huh?” Hudson said as he woke up. Then he did as Cody wanted. “Captain, something's up.”
Moreau opened her eyes. “What?”
“Get up front, Ma'am,” Hudson said. “Cody wants you for something.”
She got up and went to the pilot's seat. She looked over at Cody. Without bothering to put on her helmet, she asked, “What's up?”
“Look out the right, then the left,” Cody replied. “Something's up.”
She looked out the right, and she could see the lights of Portland. That was odd, because there was a blackout in designated areas, and Portland, due to the Columbia River, the Portland International Airport, and other infrastructure, was a potential target for Soviet aircraft flying from occupied fields in Canada and Alaska. But this night, Portland was all lit up. Moreau looked to the left, and saw the Seattle-Tacoma area, in fact, almost all of Puget Sound, also lit up. “What in the hell is going on?”
“Your guess is good as mine,” her copilot replied.
Moreau put on her helmet and plugged it in. “Nav, Pilot.”
“Pilot, Nav, go,” replied Cloke.
“Try tuning in some radio stations, see what's on the air.”
“Copy.”
Down below, Cloke began tuning in civilian radio stations. “What the..,” she said to herself. She was picking up things like We are the Champions, Kool and the Gang's Celebration, or Lee Greenwood's
God Bless the USA, and American Made by the Oak Ridge Boys. One Portland station, which normally had classical music, was playing Copeland's Fanfare for the Common Man, then Sousa's Stars and Stripes Forever. She piped it over the intercom.
“What the...” Moreau said, and the rest of the crew was jolted awake. “Robin, what's this?”
“Damned if I know, Pilot,” the navigator replied. “It's everywhere. I even tuned in a couple of Seattle and Portland all-news stations, and they're all like this. Either patriotic music, or celebratory rock and country.”
“Maybe it's over?” Radnor suggested.
“We would've heard from somebody,” Hudson replied. “Either SAC HQ, Looking Glass, or the tankers.”
“Ivan's playing some kind of radio game,” Moreau decided. “Has to be.” She checked her map. “Nav, can we make our divert fields if we can't land at Fairchild?”
“Roger that,” Cloke replied. “We can make Spokane International easy, and we've got plenty to double back to Larson, and if we have to, we can make Mountain Home.”
“Copy,” Moreau said. “How long to Fairchild?”
“Forty-five minutes.”
“Copy.” Moreau replied. Then she thought for a moment, then got onto a civilian radio frequency. “Seattle Center, Air Force One-Zero-Four-Zero.”
“Air Force One-Zero-Four-Zero, Seattle Center,” the controller called back.
“Seattle Center, do you have traffic for us, out to Spokane, say?”
“Stand by,” the controller said. A minute passed. “One-Zero-Four-Zero, negative on traffic your vicinity. Nearest traffic is at your one o'clock, fifteen miles, going away, and negative traffic en route Spokane.”
“Copy, Seattle Center,” Moreau replied. “You guys hear anything strange? On the radio,say?”
“Negative,” the controller called back. “Not much going on.”
“Copy that, and thank you. One-Zero-Four-Zero, out.”
Cody looked at her. “Has to be some kind of radio deception, or..”
“Or what?” She replied.
“What if there's a false report of a cease-fire? That would explain the music on the radio.” Cody said.
“He's probably right, Pilot,” Radnor said. “Somebody picks up a rumor, spreads it, and before you know it, it's gone around like a hurricane.”
“That's probably it,” she decided. And she flew the Buff on to Fairchild. There, the controllers at the approach control and in the tower were still professional, as they should be, and she put the Buff down on the runway. Though one thing had her wondering. On approach, the controller warned her to watch for “happy fire'' along the perimeter of the base. She taxied to her squadron's area on the ramp, and, after shutting down, the crew got out to see sheer bedlam.
“What is going on?” Cody wanted to know. “If this is how they react to a false cease-fire....”
“Yeah,” Hudson said. “Just wait until there's a real one: they'll be lucky if the base is left standing in the morning.”
The crew laughed at that as they walked over to their squadron's building. The first person they saw was Capt. Jennifer Shaw, who was the SDO. “Guys,” she said cheerfully.
“Jen,” Moreau said. “What's going on?”
“You guys haven't heard?”
“Heard what?” Hudson asked.
“It's over. Done, finished, whatever you want to call it,” Shaw replied.
“This for real?” Cloke asked. “You're kidding, right?”
“No joke,” Shaw said. “Ivan threw in the towel in Canada and Alaska about ten hours ago.”
“Ten hours ago...” Moreau said quietly. “We were over the Central Pacific.”
“Yeah, and by the way, PACAF told us about Three-One and Three-Two,” Shaw replied.
“They're fine,” a voice said from the hall. Then Lt. Col. Brad Schafer came into the room. He was their squadron CO. “Cassidy and his guys are probably out getting crazy at Kadena, though the guys on Wake, not so much.”
“It's over, Sir?” Moreau asked. “Really over?”
“You got it, Captain,” Schafer replied. “Before you all go out and get crazy yourselves, go back to your aircraft, and have a crew picture taken next to it. Because you'll want one to show your grandkids when you're bouncing them on your knee, and you can tell them that's where you were when World War III ended.”
The crew looked at each other, smiled, and said, “Yes, Sir.”
“Don't worry about the debrief, just leave your material on the Intel Officer's desk. Get cleaned up, and then, go out and have some fun. Just stay away from any 'happy fire', no felony arrests, and try not to get too plastered, okay?
Moreau nodded, “Yes, Sir.”
“What are you doing to celebrate, Sir?” Radnor asked.
“We're having a block party, over in senior officer housing. Then, after that, I imagine I'll be with my wife, reenacting the consummation of our marriage. Repeatedly,” Schafer said, turning to leave. Before he went out the door, he said, “Have fun, people! That's an order!”
The crew went and left their material with a duty NCO in the squadron intelligence office, then they went back to their aircraft, and had the crew chief take the crew photo. Then they went out on their separate ways.....
Bachelor Officer's Quarters, Fairchild AFB, WA: 0920 Hours Pacific War Time, 15 October, 1989:
Moreau woke up to the smell of coffee. Her roommate was already up, and she was making some. As she got up in bed, the sheets fell away, and revealed her bare body. When did he leave? She asked herself. At the Officer's Club, she'd met a cute A-10 driver from the 343rd, had a couple beers, then came back for some private celebrating. How many times did they do it? Enough, she knew. But she'd stopped drinking during that night, and started thinking.
“Well, look who's finally getting up,” Capt. Lori Benson said, seeing Moreau sitting up in bed. “How was it with you last night?”
“How many people on this base had one-night stands?” Moreau asked. “And how many won't remember who or how many?”
“Enough,” Lori said. “Schafer called: everybody's got the day off, and tomorrow, too.”
“So does the entire base, probably,” Moreau commented. She looked around the room. “When did he leave?”
“An hour ago. At least he didn't wake you up. I saw him as I was coming in.”
“You had a fun night?”
“Yeah,” Lori said. “Those TAC guys are OK, but to those F-4 guys, it's how many MiGs you've shot down.”
“You know the saying,” Moreau said as she got up and headed straight to the shower. “Fighter pukes make movies, bomber pilots make history.”
Lori nodded. “And that we did. What the Luftwaffe couldn't do: strategic bombing of Mother Russia.”
“Yeah, well...I need a shower.” Moreau had a nice hot shower, then came out, dressed, and decided to head off to breakfast. “You coming?”
“In a bit. I need more coffee first,” Lori said.
Moreau went down to the parking lot, and decided against driving her Jeep CJ-7. So she walked to the Officer's Club, and as she got there, a Hummer pulled up, and a pair of TAC officers were taking a blonde female officer in a flight suit out of the Club and put her in the Hummer. She overheard someone saying “Just hope nobody there last night had a camera.” Curious, she went in, and found quite a few people from both SAC and TAC, as well as the 92nd Air Base Group, having breakfast. She ordered a ham and cheese omelet, and overheard just how wild things had been the previous night. Then two of her crewmen came in: Cody McDonald and Radnor. And both looked like they'd been a bit zealous the night before. “Guys.”
“Captain,” McDonald said. “What a night.”
“Yeah,” Randor said. “Poker game and then the pool table...not doing that ever again, well, in sequence, anyway.”
Moreau looked at both of them. “What happened, or do I want to know?”
“Well, Captain,” McDonald said. “We got into a poker game, and we lost more than we won, so we came down to the Club to see if we could do better at the Pool Table. This female F-4 driver was pretty much dominating the table, so we tried our luck.”
“Bad choice,” Radnor said. “We lost.”
“Yeah,” McDonald agreed. “We didn't have enough to cover the bets, so, well....”
“What?” Moreau asked. She looked at her copilot and radar nav. “You didn't....”
“She stood up on the bar, stripped down, then took both of us by the hand into a storeroom....” Cody said.
“Stop!” Moreau said. “I get the picture. She, uh, settled the debt that way.”
“Something like that,Ma'am.” Radnor said.
“Say no more. Just like Sgt. Schultz on Hogan's Heroes: I see nothing, I hear nothing, I know nothing!”
Moreau sighed. She finished her breakfast, and then headed on out. As she had eaten, something was nagging her. With the CO still at home, she couldn't talk to him about it, so she went to see one of those who could: namely, one of the chaplains on base.
Moreau walked over to the Catholic Chaplain's office. Lt. Col. Patrick O'Connor was Boston Irish Catholic, and was very popular on base, even with the non-Catholics. She wasn't Catholic, but decided to see him instead of the Protestant Chaplain because he wasn't in. She knocked on the office door, and a voice answered. “Come in,”
She opened the office door, and found him in dress blues, “Chaplain?”
“Captain..Moreau, isn't it? I've seen you enough times.” O'Connor said. “In case you're wondering, I'm holding a Thanksgiving Service later on.”
“Glad you're here, Father. I'm not Catholic, but I've got something bothering me, and I was wondering...”
“Say no more,” Father O'Connor said. He pulled up a chair. “Have a seat, and whatever you need to talk about, I'm all ears.”
She sat down herself. “Father, I'm probably going to break security on something...”
He nodded. “Not to worry. Anything said here stays here.” He looked at her. “So, what's on your mind?”
“Chaplain, last night, I stopped drinking, stopped screwing, and stopped thinking. Why am I here and so many of my friends gone? Half of my Academy class is probably either dead, MIA, POW, or crippled for life.”
“Cindy, God works in his own way. You made it because he wanted you to.” Father O'Connor nodded. “You're not the only one asking that question today. Everyone who survived this war is asking the same question in one way or another.”
“Father, it's not just that.” Moreau said.
“What is it?” Father O'Connor asked.
“Father, I'm violating security on this one.”
“Like I said: anything said here stays here.” He patted her on the shoulder.
She sighed. “All right, Father. My first combat mission was in Summer '86. Right after that failed Spetsnatz raid on Raven Rock, I flew my first B-52 mission. Right into the heart of European Russia.”
“What about it?”
Moreau looked at him, right in the eyes. “Father, I fired a nuclear weapon. We put 340 Kilotons on this bunker somewhere along the Volga. It wasn't just out in the boonies: there were villages nearby, and they sure weren't targeted. They died because the Party put a bunker nearby and used them to hide it.”
“Paul Tibbets and Chuck Sweeney did the same,” O'Connor reminded her. “You're not alone.”
“I know. We were sending those bastards a message: 'we can come for you.' But that's not the only mission. Another one, a year later. Near Krasnoyarsk: this one had us hitting a dam's sluice gates.” Moreau said.
“Let me guess: they wanted to flood out the town and the Trans-Siberian all in one go?” Father O'Connor asked.
“That's right, Father,” Moreau nodded. “And those floodwaters didn't discriminate between military, civilians, KGB, Party, the whole bit. How do I know I didn't send a busload of schoolkids downstream, or wash out an elementary school?”
“You don't. That's war, Cindy. We all do things that in peacetime, we'd never, ever think of doing.”
“I know. But still, why am I here, and so many of my friends are gone?”
Father O'Connor smiled. “Because, Cindy, God has his own plans for you. He meant for you to make it through this. He's got his own plans for you, just as he does for everyone else.”
“I guess so, so what now?' Moreau asked.
“Don't forget your lost friends, live your life to the fullest, and remember that you're not alone in asking something like this.” The Chaplain paused. “Everyone who made it through this war is asking the same thing.”
She smiled. “Thanks, Father.. I just had to get this off my chest.”
“Anytime.” O'Connor said.
Moreau got up to leave. “Father.”
“Oh, one more thing,” O'Connor said as she got to the door.
“Yes, Father?”
“Tonight, propose a toast at the Officer's Club to lost friends. Everyone on this base has lost someone.”
“I'll do that.”
Moreau Ranch, near Eagle, Colorado, 6 May, 1990: 1300 Mountain Daylight Time:
Newly-promoted Major Cindy Moreau drove her rented car up the road leading to the ranch house. Her dad, after retiring from the USAF as a Brigadier General, had bought the ranch two years before the war, after his wife died. Cindy had helped him move in, and she had kept in touch with her father as best she could during the war, and after, always glad that he'd picked this part of Colorado to retire, and not the Eastern half, where the war had made its presence known in full force. Now, with this Armistice Flu having largely burned out, she decided to use some leave time she'd accumulated during the war, and spend a couple weeks with her dad. As she pulled up to the house, she saw her father come out.
Brig. Gen. Richard Moreau was an old bomber hand. He'd been a 2nd Lieutenant in B-29s during the last few months of the Korean War, and had flown B-47s and B-52s after that. He'd flown three tours in Southeast Asia, including LINEBACKER II missions over Hanoi out of U-Tapao in Thailand. He'd been initially disappointed that his only child was a daughter, but sending her to the USAF Academy in 1977 had filled his heart with pride, and doubly so when she graduated in 1981, with the second class to include women. And when he found out she was going to B-52s during the war, he knew she'd be flying into the Bear's Den. He'd rejoiced the day after the Armistice when she called from Fairchild and said that she was safe, and knowing that, he knew that one day, she'd be coming to see him.
Cindy got out of the rented Ford Mustang. “Dad.”
“Cindy, my baby,” General Moreau came down from the front porch and both father and daughter hugged. “Talking to you on the phone isn't enough. You're here, and you're safe.”
“Since when has flying bombers been 'safe', Dad?”
“It never has. But you made it, and that's all that counts,” her father said. “Come on in.”
They went into the ranch house. Since his retirement, General Moreau had developed the hunting bug, and a couple of Elk and Deer heads were on the wall, and a good-sized black bear pelt was on another wall. “How was the flight?”
“Not bad for commuter airlines,” she said. “That was Salt Lake to Grand Junction. Spokane to Salt Lake was your typical 727.”
“You told me about a job offer from Boeing. What's that about?”
“Later, Dad. I want to settle in.”
“Whenever you're ready, Cindy.” Her dad said.
The next few days were full of riding, fishing, and just plain talking. But General Moreau could tell that his daughter was holding something back. He'd seen it before, in both Korea and in Vietnam. One day, as they were riding back to the ranch house after a day of fishing, he turned to her and asked, “Care to talk about it?”
Cindy nodded, and got off the horse, and her father did the same. “Dad, it's been bugging me since Armistice Day. Why am I here, and a lot of my classmates are gone?”
“I asked the same thing, back in Korea. I watched friends die when their B-29 took 85-mm flak, or got torn apart by a MiG-15's guns, and when that war ended, I was in the same mood you were in. I'm here, they're not. Part of the job: not everyone comes back. You know it and so do I,” General Moreau said.
“And Vietnam?” She asked that as she walked to a creek. She picked up a rock and threw it across the creek.
“First two tours, nothing but Arc Lights, turning jungle into matchsticks. LINEBACKER II was different: that was really doing something to hurt the bad guys, and got our POWs back. But I saw B-52s take SAMs and get blown apart, and I knew that people I flew with were dying. Nothing I could do but keep going,” her father said, remembering the seven missions to Hanoi he'd flown during the “Eleven Day War.”
“Just like Grandpa, when he flew B-17s over Germany and B-29s over Japan.”
“Exactly,” General Moreau nodded as he came up to her. “You press on, do your job, and do the best you can.”
“I know.”
“One other thing: I spent most of my career either sitting in the Molehole or flying airborne alert, hoping I never heard the klaxon sound or got an EAM while I'm airborne. Because I knew if either one happened, I'd never see you or your mother ever again.”
She looked at him. “Can I confess in you?”
“You're always my baby girl. Say whatever you want.”
“Dad...” She looked across the creek. “I fired a nuke.”
General Moreau looked at his daughter. “When?”
“Right after Raven Rock.”
“That one...” General Moreau recalled. “I know people at March. They told me one plane made it, one didn't. So you hit the target and came out, but somebody else didn't.”
“Yeah. A B-1 didn't come out. They hit their target, but didn't come back.” Cindy recalled.
“So what's bothering you about it? You hit a leadership bunker, right?”
“Yeah, but there were villages in the blast zone. They didn't deserve that.”
“I know. They had no part in starting it. But we didn't want this war. They did, or, those guys in that bunker you hit did.”
“We don't know who was in that bunker, Dad. The Politburo didn't get what was coming to them until that post-Armistice Day coup went down. Somebody whacked the whole bloody cabal, or most of them, anyway. But there's still a rump Soviet Union, and they're still proud of what they did over here.” Cindy said.
“Yeah. They'll get what's coming to them, one of these days,” her father reminded her. “Did you fly the Bigeye missions, or NIMBLE CAP?”
She shook her head. “No, and I'm glad I didn't. One of those cities they hit with the Bigeyes won't be habitable for a thousand years.”
“Runaway nuclear reactor. But that's what happens when you build a city around one of your main nuclear-weapons research and development labs,” General Moreau noted. “And no NIMBLE CAP?”
“Not us. I don't know who, and I don't want to know.”
“That's a good way to look at it.” He looked at Cindy. “So, what's this about a job offer from Boeing?”
“They want experienced B-52 people to work on the B-52J program. Not the conversions, but the new-builds coming next year,” Cindy replied. “And I got another one from McDonnell Douglas down in California. They're busy with the C-17 program, and they want multiengined types to work with that.”
“Let some trash hauler handle that,” General Moreau told his daughter. “Anything from the airlines?” The civilian airlines were getting back up to normal after the war, and they were looking for new pilots, preferably military with multi-engine experience.
“Northwest, United, Delta, American, TWA,” She replied.
“Cindy, I'll support whatever you do. But you're a bomber driver. It's in your blood. Your grandfather did it. I did it, and you do it.”
“Dad-”
“It's what you're best at. Let some MAC guy or gal go from C-141s to 747s, or fly the company demo C-17,” Her father smiled. “As for the airlines? You'd be bored pretty fast, flying celebs in First, salespeople in business, and whiny tourists in coach , along with the occasional drunken sports team.” He looked at her. “Take my advice. Stay in. But take your time, and let me know when you decide.”
Cindy hugged her father. “I will, Dad.”
325th Bomb Squadron Operations Office, Fairchild AFB, WA, 21 May 1990, 1130 Hours Pacific Daylight Time:
Major Cindy Moreau sat at her desk, going over the paperwork that had accumulated while she was on leave. Peacetime Air Force, she knew now, because things that nobody bothered with during the war were now objects of bureaucratic attention. She took a break, opened a desk drawer and pulled out a half-written letter to the CO, announcing her intention to leave the Air Force when her current tour was up. Half-written, because she still hadn't made up her mind about that job offer from Boeing, nor the offers from the airlines.
Lt. Col. Bill Cassidy came into her office. “Still getting used to the peacetime Air Force, Angel?” He'd called her that when she was his copilot.
“Why didn't the strike on DC take out all the military bureaucrats?”
“I know what you mean. Some directive about what kinds of tattoos people can have is making the rounds, and no more, well...risque photos in calendars or on folks' locker doors,” Cassidy said. “The kind of folks who disappear into the rear when the war's on, and they reassert themselves when it's over.”
“'Happens every time,' my Dad said,” Moreau replied.
“How is General Moreau? He was in the 97th at Blytheville when I got there from Castle,” Cassidy remembered..
“He's fine, enjoying retirement, and when the war started, he wanted back in, but they had so many retirees wanting to re-up they could pick and choose. They didn't pick him, so he just sat it out.”
“Lucky him,” Cassidy said.
Then there was a knock on the door.
“Come in!” Moreau said.
It was one of the Operations NCOs. “Ma'am, there's someone here to see you. Says you're an old Academy friend.”
Moreau looked at her CO. She shrugged and said, “Okay.”
The NCO stood aside and Major Paula Sanford came into the office. She had been navigator on Puncher 42, a flight that Moreau had led twenty-one months earlier into the Soviet Maritime Provinces, and hadn't come back. Moreau's jaw dropped, and the first words out of her mouth were, “I thought you were dead.”
“Is that a way to greet a classmate?” Sanford said, taking off her leather flight jacket.
Cassidy stood up and muttered, “I'll leave the two of you to chat.” Then he slithered out the door.
Moreau stood up. And the two hugged. “You made it,” Sanford told her friend and Academy roommate.
Moreau stepped back. Her friend's auburn hair was cut way short, and her uniform still didn't fit right. “Have a seat, Paula. My God, what happened?”
“Took a couple of flak hits, and probably killed or knocked out the flight deck crew. And the two of us down below had no contact with anyone topside, high terrain on the radar ahead, so Kyle Shelton and I took a chance with those downward firing seats.”
“What happened to him?” Moreau asked.
“I never did see him again,” Sanford replied. “Chances are, he's dead.”
Moreau nodded. “Luck of the draw: you made it, but he didn't.”
“Yeah. I landed in a tree; never did see the plane crash, though. After I got down, I just started walking.”
“Where to?”
“Tried to head east, towards the coast,” Sanford recalled. “Maybe I could steal a small boat and head to Japan. But, once daylight came, I found out I was in a military training area-the hard way.”
“What?” Moreau asked. “Of all the places to land in...”
“Yeah. And it was Spetsnatz training going on. They found me, tied me up, and marched me for three days before we found some of their umpires and turned me over to them.”
“And the umpires turned you over to the GRU,” Moreau said. It wasn't a question.
“Right on that. They took me to Khabavarosk-”
“Far East Military District HQ,” Moreau commented.
“Yep, and the GRU there wasn't happy to see me, because I was SAC,” Sanford said. “The Viets must've taught them the rope torture, because I went through it, several times. I told them we flew from Taipei, instead of Kadena, and gave them stuff from Jane's, and they were satisfied with that. Then the KGB came.”
Moreau was surprised. “KGB?”
Her friend nodded. “Yeah. They wanted to know if we were dropping agents, SF teams, supplies to the same, that sort of thing. I tried to tell them no, we don't do that, but they weren't listening. Then one of the GRU guys comes in and I guess he told them what a B-52 can and can't do. Then they left. But not before they had me chained facing the wall and turned my back and buttocks into hamburger with a rubber truncheon.”
“Bastards,” Moreau said. “KGB...hope those animals paid for what they did.”
“Yeah, and the GRU fellas too,” Sanford replied. “Then they put me in a railroad car, the only prisoner in the cattle car, and off to the west we went. Five days, with two meals a day of Kasha, half-stale bread, and a cup of water. The only good thing was I had the bucket all to myself. Then the train stopped, and they pulled me out. Camp 606.”
“Where?” Moreau got up to grab an ONC chart of the Soviet Far East.
“About halfway between Irkutsk and Ulan-Ude,” Sanford said as Moreau unrolled the map. “Here,” she said, pointing to the location.
“So who was there?”
“Mostly Americans, some Canadians, a bunch of Chinese, and get this: one lone RAF Vulcan bomber copilot.” Sanford recalled. “About 5,000 in all. Well, after they processed me in, they put me in a women's barracks-there were a few hundred of us, and I was just another prisoner.”
Moreau looked at her friend. “So what'd they make you do?”
“After I told the POWs what was going on with the war, that we were winning, and pushing them back, I got put on a work detail filling in bomb craters on the railroad for a while, then out cutting trees for firewood and the carpenter's shop, stuff like that. Why? Because I was a B-52 crew member.”
“Their way of getting back at you,” Moreau noted.
“Right on that. And the guards were generally first-class animals. Beatings, outdoor floggings for breaking camp rules, things like that. One guard said I dissed him, and had me thrown into solitary for a while. Just an excuse for him and his buddies to come in.....” Sanford paused, remembering the horror of that night.
“Say no more, Paula,” Moreau said. “I get the idea.”
“The shrinks say talking helps. Anyway, after a few months, I wound up working in the camp farm, and did that the rest of the time.”
“Any of us come over the camp?” Moreau asked.
“Yeah. Once in a while, we'd see a Buff or a Bone come over and waggle its wings. One time, a Bone did a high-speed flyby, and a Vulcan came over once. That gave us hope, Cindy. Were you in one of those?” Asked Sanford.
“I'll check my logbook to make sure, but I probably was,” Moreau said. “When did they release you?”
“They didn't. We woke up one morning in October, and the guards were gone. All of them. We stripped the armory, grabbed all the food and medical supplies, and started walking east,” Sanford told her friend.
“What?”
“Yeah, next camp we came across was full of political prisoners-people from the Ukraine, the Baltics, the 'stans, you name it.” Sanford said. “Some of 'em wanted to come with us, but others, they wanted to go home, and headed west, so they did. Then we hijacked a couple of trains, and when we got to Ulan-Ude, we grabbed a few more.”
Moreau sat there, fascinated. “Anybody object?”
Sanford laughed. “The Loyalists and the Rebels were busy fighting it out, and nobody was willing or able. So we took whatever we wanted, and kept on going. Only twenty-five miles or so a day, given the shape of the track, poorly rebuilt bridges, that sort of thing. Took us four months to get to Khabavarosk.”
“Doing some fighting on the way, negotiating for safe passage with locals, the Rebels wanting your hardware for their own use, all of that.” Moreau said.
“All of the above,” Sanford remembered. “When we got to Khabavarosk, the Rebels were calling themselves the Army of the Far East Republic, and they had another 30,000 POWs on their hands, wondering what to do. Then some JGSDF officer came.”
Moreau was stunned. “Japanese?”
“You got it. He said the FER had received recognition from Japan, and that he was told about us, and that all the POW camps in the region would be emptied, and everyone transported to Nakhodka for transit to Japan, and then turned over to the U.S. Military.”
“And that's what happened.” Moreau said.
“That's it. I rode one of the ferries that usually goes between Japan and South Korea, to Niigata, and that's where the Repatriation Teams were set up. Medical checks, intelligence debriefs, all of that. And all the food we could eat. Then a C-141 to McChord, and then back home to Michigan.” Sanford said.
“Now you're on convalescent leave, right?”
“Yeah, and I've got six months of that, they told me. And I'm using each minute of it, Cindy.”
“You deserve it. Along with everybody else who came out.” Moreau said. “And after that?”
Her friend grinned. “I'm staying in. Hell, Cindy, this is the first time we've been in a war where we're keeping a lot of the wartime force structure around. How about you?”
“I don't know, to be honest,” Moreau said. She showed her the letters from Boeing, McDonnell Douglas, United, Northwest, and the others.
“Believe me, Cindy, you and I are bomber drivers. It's what we're good at.” Sanford said, looking at her classmate with a deadly serious look in her eyes. “Believe me, you're not cut out to be a company pilot, just doing check flights on new birds. And you'll be bored out of your mind driving 747s with snobby celebrities in First Class, Executives in Business, and whiny tourists in coach, along with the drunken sports team every once in a while. You'd be looking for a re-up officer in six months, wanting back in.”
Moreau looked at her friend. And she knew that Paula was dead-on. “You know what? You're probably right.” She took the job offers and the half-written letter and promptly turned them into confetti.
Right then, Colonel Cassidy came walking by and saw the shower of torn up paper. He couldn't resist looking in, and asking, “What was that?”
Moreau looked at Paula, then her CO. “Bad decisions that I didn't have to make. Just letting you know: I'm re-upping.”
“Suits me just fine,” Cassidy said. “I'll swear you in.”
“No, Dad will,” Moreau replied. “No debate or discussion.”
Cassidy nodded. He knew General Moreau was very proud of his daughter, and something like this, he'd want to do it. “Fair enough.” He looked at Moreau. “This came for you.” He handed her a letter. It was from the personnel office at SAC.
She opened it, and found that if she wanted to be promoted to Lieutenant Colonel and become eligible for squadron command, she'd have to attend one of the war colleges. She looked at her CO, who had taken command before that requirement had reasserted itself. “Well...after I re-up, it's off to Maxwell.”
“War college?” Sanford asked.
“You got it.”
“Peacetime Air Force strikes again,” Cassidy noted. “I'll bet that Major Sanford has a similar letter waiting when she gets back home.”
“No doubt,” Sanford said.
“Anyway,” Cassidy said, “Moreau, take the rest of the day off. You two have a lot to talk about. And Major Sanford?”
“Yes?”
“There's some squadron mates of yours still in the 325th. I'm sure they'd like to know you've come back from the dead,” Cassidy told Sanford.
“Tomorrow, if you don't mind, Colonel,” Sanford replied. “Two classmates have some more catching up to do.”
Cassidy nodded, and both Moreau and Sanford headed on out. Before they got into Moreau's Jeep, Moreau asked Sanford, “Lunch in Spokane, shopping, whatever?”
“Fine by me. As long as there's no borscht, Kasha, or anything else Russian.”
“That's easy to arrange.” Moreau said, putting the jeep into gear, and heading for the main gate.
The last EASTERN EXPRESS strike mission... and I'm sure everyone recognizes both the pilot and strike lead....
Last Eastern Express: Moreau's Story
SAC Operations HQ: RAF Kai Tak, Hong Kong, 14 October, 1989,1700 Local Time (0200 Pacific War Time)
Captain Cindy Moreau of the 325th Bomb Squadron, 92nd Bomb Wing, stared at the briefing board. She and two other crews from the 325th had flown a Trans-Pacific from Fairchild to Hong Kong two days earlier, and after the mandatory crew rest, they were getting ready for yet another EASTERN EXPRESS mission. Exactly what their target was, they didn't yet know, but she, and the other two aircraft commanders-one of whom was Major Bill Cassidy, her former AC and the squadron's Executive Officer, hadn't yet been told, along with the rest of the crews. To make matters even more complicated, there were rumors of a cease-fire going around Fairchild when they left, just after a bunch of TAC F-4s had arrived, and the last thing they wanted was to be in the air, over Russia, when a cease-fire was called, for Voyska PVO, the Soviet Air Defense Force, might not be...willing to let them go, just like that. She was talking about that with Major Cassidy and Capt. Mike Austin, the other AC, when the Briefing officer came into the room, and all the crews came to attention. “Have a seat, people,” the Colonel said. “Let's get down to business.”
Everyone sat, and the Colonel unveiled the briefing boards. “Here's your target: Irkutsk.”
All of the crews looked at each other. Oh, boy. Irkutsk was a hairy one, and not just because of the oil refinery or the industry, not to mention the location on the Trans-Siberian Railroad,, but because to the northwest of the city, there was an SS-20 IRBM base and a reported SS-25 ICBM base. There were SA-2, SA-3, and SA-5 sites in the area, a full regiment from Voyska PVO, and even AA sites, for many older reservists had been recalled as the war went on, and they manned 85-mm and 100-mm AA guns. A night flight was the best of all, for the AAA was known to be manually aimed, and if they couldn't see you.....
“All right,” the Colonel said. He turned to Major Cassidy. “Robber Three-One, your target is the main railroad yard. Try and lay your bombs across the switching station, as well as the workshops. The more cuts on the line, the better.”
Cassidy nodded. He'd done this several times before, at Ulan-Ude, Chita, and several points west.
“Robber Three-Two,” the Colonel said, catching Captain Austin's attention. “For you, the oil refinery at Angarsk. Your main target there is the cat cracker, and see if you can't walk some of your bombs across the POL storage.”
Austin nodded.
“Now, saving the best for last: Robber Three-Three.” the Colonel said, and Moreau could see he was staring right at her. “Irkutsk Northwest Airfield. This isn't a military base, nor is it the local civilian airport. It's the factory field for an aviation plant, and this is the final assembly plant for Su-27s. Put your bombs on the ramp, and just walk them into the factory. Knock it out for a while, and no more Flankers, simple as that.”
Simple as that? Then why don't you come along for the ride? That feeling was universal among combat aircrews, regardless of service. The briefers rarely went out and got their hands dirty, and since most, if not all, were spooks, the crews knew the saying “We're betting your life.” Moreau nodded, and turned to her copilot, 1st Lt. Cody McDonald. Both simply nodded.
“All right: questions?” The Colonel asked.
“Weather?” Cassidy's Navigator asked.
“Over China, cloudy for the most part. You won't hit clear weather until you hit the Soviet border area. Irkutsk proper should be clear, visibility about ten miles, ceiling unlimited. It'll be a cool night, and your FLIR should have optimum performance.”
“What about threats?” Moreau asked.
Cassidy looked at her. “Good question.”
“The usual,” the briefer replied. “There's an SA-2 brigade, with two SA-3 battalions, and at least three SA-5 sites as well. The airfield at Belaya has a PVO Regiment with Tu-128s, but be advised that imagery shows MiG-31s there as well: no idea if they're converting, or if this is a new Regiment. The bombers, though, are still there. Then there's the AAA: 85-mm and 100-mm, but they're optically guided, and at night, they shouldn't be a problem for you.”
Easy for you to say, Moreau thought.
“And post-strike?” Austin asked.
“Your egress takes you over Mongolia, and remember they're Soviet allied, though their own air defense is pretty sparse. Once you're clear and across the Chinese border, you should be OK. Climb to altitude, and get out to the East China Sea. Your post-strike refueling will be east of where Shanghai used to be. If the tankers don't make it for whatever reason, Kadena is your primary divert, though Taipei will do if you have the fuel.” The Colonel looked the crews over. “Any other questions?” There were none. “All right: get prepped, because wheels up in an hour.”
Eight Hours Later: west of Irkutsk, USSR, 0200 Local Time, 15 October, 1989 (1000 Pacific War Time):
Robber Flight was now at low-level, heading into hostile territory. Occasionally, the bombers had popped up, to clear terrain or power lines, and had picked up Soviet air-defense radars. The Chinese had fired some of the MRBMs and IRBMs before they were blasted, and several gaps had been blown in the Soviet air defense network, and those gaps had only been partially filled. SAC had quickly taken advantage, and instead flying bombers over the pole, SAC and then the RAF had gone in the back door..
Inside Robber Three-Three, Moreau was talking with her navigator, Capt. Robin Cloke. “Time to IP?”
“Three minutes, Pilot.”
“All right, get out the checklists: Bomb Run (Conventional), and time to go to work.” Moreau called.
The bombers were coming in at thirty-second intervals, and she knew that Three-One, Major Cassidy, was getting ready to go in. He had been her AC upon joining the bomber force, and they had flown for a year before she upgraded to AC herself.
A minute and a half later, Cassidy called, “Three-One in hot.” Time to go to work.
“EWO, Pilot, get those jammers warmed up, because we'll need 'em. Chaff and flare program on my mark.” Moreau called 1st Lt. Keith Hudson, the EWO.
“Roger that,” EWO called back.
“Gunner, get ready.”
“Guns ready,” Staff Sgt. Paul McClure said. He was the Buff's gunner, and on another crew, he'd splashed an Su-15 with his Vulcan. He was one of several gunners in the squadron who had kills, and he was eager for another.
The radio crackled again. “Three-Two's in.”
Thirty seconds later: “Initial Point,” Cloke called.
“Coming to one-four zero.” Moreau called. “Jammers up!” Then she made her radio call, “Three-Three in hot.”
“Roger that,” Hudson called.
“Look at that!” Cory McDonald called. Up ahead, multiple explosions went off as Three-One laid its bombs on the rail yard. Then several huge fireballs erupted as Three-Two hit the oil refinery.
“Pilot, EW,” Hudson said. “All sorts of radars coming up. SA-2, SA-3, air-search.”
“Jam the shit out of them,” Moreau said. “Radar?”
Capt. Kevin Radnor, the Radar Navigator, or bombardier, was on the line. “Thirty seconds to bomb release. Altitude four hundred feet AGL, release airspeed 385 knots, escape heading straight through one-four-zero degrees.”
“Roger that,” Moreau called as she pulled the aircraft up from to two hundred feet AGL to four hundred.
McDonald was watching the FLIR. “Field in sight. Target in sight.”
“Copy. Bomb bay doors open. Bombs armed.”
“Steady, steady,” Radnor called, watching his radar display. He had a radar map of the target, “We're right down the centerline. Fifteen seconds.”
“Stand by.” Moreau said.
“Hack in five, four, three, two, one, HACK!”
Moreau hit her bomb release, just as Radnor did. And fifty-one five-hundred pound Mark-82 bombs came out of Three-Three's bomb bay,and the external racks. The Mark-82s were the Snakeye types, enabling low-altitude delivery. The externally carried bombs also had fuze extenders, called “Daisy Cutters,”and they went off above the ground, and they went first, followed by the regular Snakeyes.
“Bombs Away!” Moreau called.
“Chaff and Flare program into automatic,” the EWO called.
Down below, the Sukhoi Factory had no warning at all. The sirens didn't sound until after the first B-52 had made its run, and many of the workers, having heard more false alarms than real ones, were a bit lax in heading to the shelters. A few workers, checking on several Su-27s parked on the ramp, awaiting delivery to either the Air Force or the Voyska PVO, heard it first, then, in the glow of the exploding Angarsk refinery, they saw the outline of a B-52 headed southeast. Then, a dark shadow appeared over them, from which hell on earth came as the bombs exploded on the ramp, and marched into the factory.
A dozen bombs fell on the ramp, two hit the runway, and most of the rest fell within the factory itself. Explosions and fire soon followed, and the Sukhoi plant was out of commission.
“Bomb bay doors closing,” Radnor reported.
“Roger that,” Moreau said. “EW, keep the chaff and flares coming, but stop when you get to twenty-five percent. Save some for getting over the border.”
“Copy,” Hudson replied. “Nothing locking onto us, but there's SA-2 and -5 all up.”
“MiGs?”
“Nothing.”
Unknown to the B-52 crews, the Voyska PVO Regiment at Belaya was having trouble getting off the ground. Though they were in the middle of converting from the Tu-128 to the MiG-31, they did have several of each sitting on alert. To make matters worse from the Soviet point of view, the Backfire bombers based there were suddenly ordered into the air to clear the field, for the bomber commanders did not want their aircraft caught on the ground if there was a second wave. Thus, several Backfires were taxiing into position for takeoff when two Tu-128s and two MiG-31s also began taxiing from the V-PVO side of the base. And a shouting match was developing between the V-PVO commander and the Major General commanding the 31st Heavy Bomber Aviation Division.
While the Air Force and the PVO were arguing, and a hapless Political Officer was trying to mediate between an angry General and a hot-tempered PVO Colonel, a Backfire started its takeoff roll. Just then, two MiG-31s started theirs from the opposite end of the runway. The lead MiG pilot didn't see the Backfire, but his wingman did, and aborted his roll, while the Backfire pilot and copilot tried to take evasive action. It was too late: the MiG was clipped by the Backfire's left wing, and both rolled away: the MiG crashed onto the ramp, killing both crewmen, while the Backfire's crew ejected immediately, with their aircraft pulling up, stalling, then plunging to the runway below, exploding in a ball of fire.
“Radars dropping off,” Hudson reported as Three-Three flew to the southeast.
“Roger that. Kill the jammer, chaff and flare program,” said Moreau.
“Copy.”
Moreau took off her oxygen mask, and that was the signal for the others to do the same. They weren't home-free just yet, but once clear of the target area, they could relax. But only for a little. The Buff was still in enemy territory, and all manner of threats could still be out there. “Want to take it?” She asked Cody.
“Copilot's airplane.” he called back. “Whew.”
“You said it,” Hudson called. “One more run to the end of the war.”
“For all we know, this cease-fire talk may be just that,” Moreau reminded her crew. “Stay alert, people.”
The crew nodded, and the Navigator called, “Twenty minutes to the border.” She meant the Mongolian border. That was still enemy territory, for there were Soviet troops based there, including Air Force and V-PVO. It would be another ninety minutes after that before they were clear of enemy territory, and over the (relative) safety of China, or what used to be China.
Two hours later, Moreau began climbing back to cruise altitude. And on radar, she and the radar nav could see the other two aircraft ahead of them. Robber flight had made it.
Approaching the Washington Coast, 14 October, 1985, 2000 Pacific War Time.
Robber Three-Three was at 35,000 feet, and heading for Fairchild. They were the only ones of the flight to make the entire Trans-Pacific return leg, though. Cassidy in Three-One had a foul-up with the tanker rendezvous, and he had diverted to Kadena AB on Okinawa. Three-Two had made its tanker, but a second meet over the Pacific had been blown, whether it was due to tanker trouble or someone's navigation being off, so they landed their Buff at Wake. But Moreau's bird had made their two meetups, and they were now approaching the Washington Coastline. The crew was tired after so many hours in the air, their EASTERN EXPRESS tour was over, and after some time off, they'd be either sitting nuclear alert or flying conventional missions in support of the Canadian Theater.
Moreau was taking a nap in the bunk in front of the EWO's station, while Cody flew the airplane. The EWO and gunner, their work done, simply leaned back in their ejection seats as best they could and fell asleep. Down below, the nav was still working, while Radnor, his job also done, also took a nap. Then Cody called the EWO. “Wake up Captain Moreau. NOW!”
“Huh?” Hudson said as he woke up. Then he did as Cody wanted. “Captain, something's up.”
Moreau opened her eyes. “What?”
“Get up front, Ma'am,” Hudson said. “Cody wants you for something.”
She got up and went to the pilot's seat. She looked over at Cody. Without bothering to put on her helmet, she asked, “What's up?”
“Look out the right, then the left,” Cody replied. “Something's up.”
She looked out the right, and she could see the lights of Portland. That was odd, because there was a blackout in designated areas, and Portland, due to the Columbia River, the Portland International Airport, and other infrastructure, was a potential target for Soviet aircraft flying from occupied fields in Canada and Alaska. But this night, Portland was all lit up. Moreau looked to the left, and saw the Seattle-Tacoma area, in fact, almost all of Puget Sound, also lit up. “What in the hell is going on?”
“Your guess is good as mine,” her copilot replied.
Moreau put on her helmet and plugged it in. “Nav, Pilot.”
“Pilot, Nav, go,” replied Cloke.
“Try tuning in some radio stations, see what's on the air.”
“Copy.”
Down below, Cloke began tuning in civilian radio stations. “What the..,” she said to herself. She was picking up things like We are the Champions, Kool and the Gang's Celebration, or Lee Greenwood's
God Bless the USA, and American Made by the Oak Ridge Boys. One Portland station, which normally had classical music, was playing Copeland's Fanfare for the Common Man, then Sousa's Stars and Stripes Forever. She piped it over the intercom.
“What the...” Moreau said, and the rest of the crew was jolted awake. “Robin, what's this?”
“Damned if I know, Pilot,” the navigator replied. “It's everywhere. I even tuned in a couple of Seattle and Portland all-news stations, and they're all like this. Either patriotic music, or celebratory rock and country.”
“Maybe it's over?” Radnor suggested.
“We would've heard from somebody,” Hudson replied. “Either SAC HQ, Looking Glass, or the tankers.”
“Ivan's playing some kind of radio game,” Moreau decided. “Has to be.” She checked her map. “Nav, can we make our divert fields if we can't land at Fairchild?”
“Roger that,” Cloke replied. “We can make Spokane International easy, and we've got plenty to double back to Larson, and if we have to, we can make Mountain Home.”
“Copy,” Moreau said. “How long to Fairchild?”
“Forty-five minutes.”
“Copy.” Moreau replied. Then she thought for a moment, then got onto a civilian radio frequency. “Seattle Center, Air Force One-Zero-Four-Zero.”
“Air Force One-Zero-Four-Zero, Seattle Center,” the controller called back.
“Seattle Center, do you have traffic for us, out to Spokane, say?”
“Stand by,” the controller said. A minute passed. “One-Zero-Four-Zero, negative on traffic your vicinity. Nearest traffic is at your one o'clock, fifteen miles, going away, and negative traffic en route Spokane.”
“Copy, Seattle Center,” Moreau replied. “You guys hear anything strange? On the radio,say?”
“Negative,” the controller called back. “Not much going on.”
“Copy that, and thank you. One-Zero-Four-Zero, out.”
Cody looked at her. “Has to be some kind of radio deception, or..”
“Or what?” She replied.
“What if there's a false report of a cease-fire? That would explain the music on the radio.” Cody said.
“He's probably right, Pilot,” Radnor said. “Somebody picks up a rumor, spreads it, and before you know it, it's gone around like a hurricane.”
“That's probably it,” she decided. And she flew the Buff on to Fairchild. There, the controllers at the approach control and in the tower were still professional, as they should be, and she put the Buff down on the runway. Though one thing had her wondering. On approach, the controller warned her to watch for “happy fire'' along the perimeter of the base. She taxied to her squadron's area on the ramp, and, after shutting down, the crew got out to see sheer bedlam.
“What is going on?” Cody wanted to know. “If this is how they react to a false cease-fire....”
“Yeah,” Hudson said. “Just wait until there's a real one: they'll be lucky if the base is left standing in the morning.”
The crew laughed at that as they walked over to their squadron's building. The first person they saw was Capt. Jennifer Shaw, who was the SDO. “Guys,” she said cheerfully.
“Jen,” Moreau said. “What's going on?”
“You guys haven't heard?”
“Heard what?” Hudson asked.
“It's over. Done, finished, whatever you want to call it,” Shaw replied.
“This for real?” Cloke asked. “You're kidding, right?”
“No joke,” Shaw said. “Ivan threw in the towel in Canada and Alaska about ten hours ago.”
“Ten hours ago...” Moreau said quietly. “We were over the Central Pacific.”
“Yeah, and by the way, PACAF told us about Three-One and Three-Two,” Shaw replied.
“They're fine,” a voice said from the hall. Then Lt. Col. Brad Schafer came into the room. He was their squadron CO. “Cassidy and his guys are probably out getting crazy at Kadena, though the guys on Wake, not so much.”
“It's over, Sir?” Moreau asked. “Really over?”
“You got it, Captain,” Schafer replied. “Before you all go out and get crazy yourselves, go back to your aircraft, and have a crew picture taken next to it. Because you'll want one to show your grandkids when you're bouncing them on your knee, and you can tell them that's where you were when World War III ended.”
The crew looked at each other, smiled, and said, “Yes, Sir.”
“Don't worry about the debrief, just leave your material on the Intel Officer's desk. Get cleaned up, and then, go out and have some fun. Just stay away from any 'happy fire', no felony arrests, and try not to get too plastered, okay?
Moreau nodded, “Yes, Sir.”
“What are you doing to celebrate, Sir?” Radnor asked.
“We're having a block party, over in senior officer housing. Then, after that, I imagine I'll be with my wife, reenacting the consummation of our marriage. Repeatedly,” Schafer said, turning to leave. Before he went out the door, he said, “Have fun, people! That's an order!”
The crew went and left their material with a duty NCO in the squadron intelligence office, then they went back to their aircraft, and had the crew chief take the crew photo. Then they went out on their separate ways.....
Bachelor Officer's Quarters, Fairchild AFB, WA: 0920 Hours Pacific War Time, 15 October, 1989:
Moreau woke up to the smell of coffee. Her roommate was already up, and she was making some. As she got up in bed, the sheets fell away, and revealed her bare body. When did he leave? She asked herself. At the Officer's Club, she'd met a cute A-10 driver from the 343rd, had a couple beers, then came back for some private celebrating. How many times did they do it? Enough, she knew. But she'd stopped drinking during that night, and started thinking.
“Well, look who's finally getting up,” Capt. Lori Benson said, seeing Moreau sitting up in bed. “How was it with you last night?”
“How many people on this base had one-night stands?” Moreau asked. “And how many won't remember who or how many?”
“Enough,” Lori said. “Schafer called: everybody's got the day off, and tomorrow, too.”
“So does the entire base, probably,” Moreau commented. She looked around the room. “When did he leave?”
“An hour ago. At least he didn't wake you up. I saw him as I was coming in.”
“You had a fun night?”
“Yeah,” Lori said. “Those TAC guys are OK, but to those F-4 guys, it's how many MiGs you've shot down.”
“You know the saying,” Moreau said as she got up and headed straight to the shower. “Fighter pukes make movies, bomber pilots make history.”
Lori nodded. “And that we did. What the Luftwaffe couldn't do: strategic bombing of Mother Russia.”
“Yeah, well...I need a shower.” Moreau had a nice hot shower, then came out, dressed, and decided to head off to breakfast. “You coming?”
“In a bit. I need more coffee first,” Lori said.
Moreau went down to the parking lot, and decided against driving her Jeep CJ-7. So she walked to the Officer's Club, and as she got there, a Hummer pulled up, and a pair of TAC officers were taking a blonde female officer in a flight suit out of the Club and put her in the Hummer. She overheard someone saying “Just hope nobody there last night had a camera.” Curious, she went in, and found quite a few people from both SAC and TAC, as well as the 92nd Air Base Group, having breakfast. She ordered a ham and cheese omelet, and overheard just how wild things had been the previous night. Then two of her crewmen came in: Cody McDonald and Radnor. And both looked like they'd been a bit zealous the night before. “Guys.”
“Captain,” McDonald said. “What a night.”
“Yeah,” Randor said. “Poker game and then the pool table...not doing that ever again, well, in sequence, anyway.”
Moreau looked at both of them. “What happened, or do I want to know?”
“Well, Captain,” McDonald said. “We got into a poker game, and we lost more than we won, so we came down to the Club to see if we could do better at the Pool Table. This female F-4 driver was pretty much dominating the table, so we tried our luck.”
“Bad choice,” Radnor said. “We lost.”
“Yeah,” McDonald agreed. “We didn't have enough to cover the bets, so, well....”
“What?” Moreau asked. She looked at her copilot and radar nav. “You didn't....”
“She stood up on the bar, stripped down, then took both of us by the hand into a storeroom....” Cody said.
“Stop!” Moreau said. “I get the picture. She, uh, settled the debt that way.”
“Something like that,Ma'am.” Radnor said.
“Say no more. Just like Sgt. Schultz on Hogan's Heroes: I see nothing, I hear nothing, I know nothing!”
Moreau sighed. She finished her breakfast, and then headed on out. As she had eaten, something was nagging her. With the CO still at home, she couldn't talk to him about it, so she went to see one of those who could: namely, one of the chaplains on base.
Moreau walked over to the Catholic Chaplain's office. Lt. Col. Patrick O'Connor was Boston Irish Catholic, and was very popular on base, even with the non-Catholics. She wasn't Catholic, but decided to see him instead of the Protestant Chaplain because he wasn't in. She knocked on the office door, and a voice answered. “Come in,”
She opened the office door, and found him in dress blues, “Chaplain?”
“Captain..Moreau, isn't it? I've seen you enough times.” O'Connor said. “In case you're wondering, I'm holding a Thanksgiving Service later on.”
“Glad you're here, Father. I'm not Catholic, but I've got something bothering me, and I was wondering...”
“Say no more,” Father O'Connor said. He pulled up a chair. “Have a seat, and whatever you need to talk about, I'm all ears.”
She sat down herself. “Father, I'm probably going to break security on something...”
He nodded. “Not to worry. Anything said here stays here.” He looked at her. “So, what's on your mind?”
“Chaplain, last night, I stopped drinking, stopped screwing, and stopped thinking. Why am I here and so many of my friends gone? Half of my Academy class is probably either dead, MIA, POW, or crippled for life.”
“Cindy, God works in his own way. You made it because he wanted you to.” Father O'Connor nodded. “You're not the only one asking that question today. Everyone who survived this war is asking the same question in one way or another.”
“Father, it's not just that.” Moreau said.
“What is it?” Father O'Connor asked.
“Father, I'm violating security on this one.”
“Like I said: anything said here stays here.” He patted her on the shoulder.
She sighed. “All right, Father. My first combat mission was in Summer '86. Right after that failed Spetsnatz raid on Raven Rock, I flew my first B-52 mission. Right into the heart of European Russia.”
“What about it?”
Moreau looked at him, right in the eyes. “Father, I fired a nuclear weapon. We put 340 Kilotons on this bunker somewhere along the Volga. It wasn't just out in the boonies: there were villages nearby, and they sure weren't targeted. They died because the Party put a bunker nearby and used them to hide it.”
“Paul Tibbets and Chuck Sweeney did the same,” O'Connor reminded her. “You're not alone.”
“I know. We were sending those bastards a message: 'we can come for you.' But that's not the only mission. Another one, a year later. Near Krasnoyarsk: this one had us hitting a dam's sluice gates.” Moreau said.
“Let me guess: they wanted to flood out the town and the Trans-Siberian all in one go?” Father O'Connor asked.
“That's right, Father,” Moreau nodded. “And those floodwaters didn't discriminate between military, civilians, KGB, Party, the whole bit. How do I know I didn't send a busload of schoolkids downstream, or wash out an elementary school?”
“You don't. That's war, Cindy. We all do things that in peacetime, we'd never, ever think of doing.”
“I know. But still, why am I here, and so many of my friends are gone?”
Father O'Connor smiled. “Because, Cindy, God has his own plans for you. He meant for you to make it through this. He's got his own plans for you, just as he does for everyone else.”
“I guess so, so what now?' Moreau asked.
“Don't forget your lost friends, live your life to the fullest, and remember that you're not alone in asking something like this.” The Chaplain paused. “Everyone who made it through this war is asking the same thing.”
She smiled. “Thanks, Father.. I just had to get this off my chest.”
“Anytime.” O'Connor said.
Moreau got up to leave. “Father.”
“Oh, one more thing,” O'Connor said as she got to the door.
“Yes, Father?”
“Tonight, propose a toast at the Officer's Club to lost friends. Everyone on this base has lost someone.”
“I'll do that.”
Moreau Ranch, near Eagle, Colorado, 6 May, 1990: 1300 Mountain Daylight Time:
Newly-promoted Major Cindy Moreau drove her rented car up the road leading to the ranch house. Her dad, after retiring from the USAF as a Brigadier General, had bought the ranch two years before the war, after his wife died. Cindy had helped him move in, and she had kept in touch with her father as best she could during the war, and after, always glad that he'd picked this part of Colorado to retire, and not the Eastern half, where the war had made its presence known in full force. Now, with this Armistice Flu having largely burned out, she decided to use some leave time she'd accumulated during the war, and spend a couple weeks with her dad. As she pulled up to the house, she saw her father come out.
Brig. Gen. Richard Moreau was an old bomber hand. He'd been a 2nd Lieutenant in B-29s during the last few months of the Korean War, and had flown B-47s and B-52s after that. He'd flown three tours in Southeast Asia, including LINEBACKER II missions over Hanoi out of U-Tapao in Thailand. He'd been initially disappointed that his only child was a daughter, but sending her to the USAF Academy in 1977 had filled his heart with pride, and doubly so when she graduated in 1981, with the second class to include women. And when he found out she was going to B-52s during the war, he knew she'd be flying into the Bear's Den. He'd rejoiced the day after the Armistice when she called from Fairchild and said that she was safe, and knowing that, he knew that one day, she'd be coming to see him.
Cindy got out of the rented Ford Mustang. “Dad.”
“Cindy, my baby,” General Moreau came down from the front porch and both father and daughter hugged. “Talking to you on the phone isn't enough. You're here, and you're safe.”
“Since when has flying bombers been 'safe', Dad?”
“It never has. But you made it, and that's all that counts,” her father said. “Come on in.”
They went into the ranch house. Since his retirement, General Moreau had developed the hunting bug, and a couple of Elk and Deer heads were on the wall, and a good-sized black bear pelt was on another wall. “How was the flight?”
“Not bad for commuter airlines,” she said. “That was Salt Lake to Grand Junction. Spokane to Salt Lake was your typical 727.”
“You told me about a job offer from Boeing. What's that about?”
“Later, Dad. I want to settle in.”
“Whenever you're ready, Cindy.” Her dad said.
The next few days were full of riding, fishing, and just plain talking. But General Moreau could tell that his daughter was holding something back. He'd seen it before, in both Korea and in Vietnam. One day, as they were riding back to the ranch house after a day of fishing, he turned to her and asked, “Care to talk about it?”
Cindy nodded, and got off the horse, and her father did the same. “Dad, it's been bugging me since Armistice Day. Why am I here, and a lot of my classmates are gone?”
“I asked the same thing, back in Korea. I watched friends die when their B-29 took 85-mm flak, or got torn apart by a MiG-15's guns, and when that war ended, I was in the same mood you were in. I'm here, they're not. Part of the job: not everyone comes back. You know it and so do I,” General Moreau said.
“And Vietnam?” She asked that as she walked to a creek. She picked up a rock and threw it across the creek.
“First two tours, nothing but Arc Lights, turning jungle into matchsticks. LINEBACKER II was different: that was really doing something to hurt the bad guys, and got our POWs back. But I saw B-52s take SAMs and get blown apart, and I knew that people I flew with were dying. Nothing I could do but keep going,” her father said, remembering the seven missions to Hanoi he'd flown during the “Eleven Day War.”
“Just like Grandpa, when he flew B-17s over Germany and B-29s over Japan.”
“Exactly,” General Moreau nodded as he came up to her. “You press on, do your job, and do the best you can.”
“I know.”
“One other thing: I spent most of my career either sitting in the Molehole or flying airborne alert, hoping I never heard the klaxon sound or got an EAM while I'm airborne. Because I knew if either one happened, I'd never see you or your mother ever again.”
She looked at him. “Can I confess in you?”
“You're always my baby girl. Say whatever you want.”
“Dad...” She looked across the creek. “I fired a nuke.”
General Moreau looked at his daughter. “When?”
“Right after Raven Rock.”
“That one...” General Moreau recalled. “I know people at March. They told me one plane made it, one didn't. So you hit the target and came out, but somebody else didn't.”
“Yeah. A B-1 didn't come out. They hit their target, but didn't come back.” Cindy recalled.
“So what's bothering you about it? You hit a leadership bunker, right?”
“Yeah, but there were villages in the blast zone. They didn't deserve that.”
“I know. They had no part in starting it. But we didn't want this war. They did, or, those guys in that bunker you hit did.”
“We don't know who was in that bunker, Dad. The Politburo didn't get what was coming to them until that post-Armistice Day coup went down. Somebody whacked the whole bloody cabal, or most of them, anyway. But there's still a rump Soviet Union, and they're still proud of what they did over here.” Cindy said.
“Yeah. They'll get what's coming to them, one of these days,” her father reminded her. “Did you fly the Bigeye missions, or NIMBLE CAP?”
She shook her head. “No, and I'm glad I didn't. One of those cities they hit with the Bigeyes won't be habitable for a thousand years.”
“Runaway nuclear reactor. But that's what happens when you build a city around one of your main nuclear-weapons research and development labs,” General Moreau noted. “And no NIMBLE CAP?”
“Not us. I don't know who, and I don't want to know.”
“That's a good way to look at it.” He looked at Cindy. “So, what's this about a job offer from Boeing?”
“They want experienced B-52 people to work on the B-52J program. Not the conversions, but the new-builds coming next year,” Cindy replied. “And I got another one from McDonnell Douglas down in California. They're busy with the C-17 program, and they want multiengined types to work with that.”
“Let some trash hauler handle that,” General Moreau told his daughter. “Anything from the airlines?” The civilian airlines were getting back up to normal after the war, and they were looking for new pilots, preferably military with multi-engine experience.
“Northwest, United, Delta, American, TWA,” She replied.
“Cindy, I'll support whatever you do. But you're a bomber driver. It's in your blood. Your grandfather did it. I did it, and you do it.”
“Dad-”
“It's what you're best at. Let some MAC guy or gal go from C-141s to 747s, or fly the company demo C-17,” Her father smiled. “As for the airlines? You'd be bored pretty fast, flying celebs in First, salespeople in business, and whiny tourists in coach , along with the occasional drunken sports team.” He looked at her. “Take my advice. Stay in. But take your time, and let me know when you decide.”
Cindy hugged her father. “I will, Dad.”
325th Bomb Squadron Operations Office, Fairchild AFB, WA, 21 May 1990, 1130 Hours Pacific Daylight Time:
Major Cindy Moreau sat at her desk, going over the paperwork that had accumulated while she was on leave. Peacetime Air Force, she knew now, because things that nobody bothered with during the war were now objects of bureaucratic attention. She took a break, opened a desk drawer and pulled out a half-written letter to the CO, announcing her intention to leave the Air Force when her current tour was up. Half-written, because she still hadn't made up her mind about that job offer from Boeing, nor the offers from the airlines.
Lt. Col. Bill Cassidy came into her office. “Still getting used to the peacetime Air Force, Angel?” He'd called her that when she was his copilot.
“Why didn't the strike on DC take out all the military bureaucrats?”
“I know what you mean. Some directive about what kinds of tattoos people can have is making the rounds, and no more, well...risque photos in calendars or on folks' locker doors,” Cassidy said. “The kind of folks who disappear into the rear when the war's on, and they reassert themselves when it's over.”
“'Happens every time,' my Dad said,” Moreau replied.
“How is General Moreau? He was in the 97th at Blytheville when I got there from Castle,” Cassidy remembered..
“He's fine, enjoying retirement, and when the war started, he wanted back in, but they had so many retirees wanting to re-up they could pick and choose. They didn't pick him, so he just sat it out.”
“Lucky him,” Cassidy said.
Then there was a knock on the door.
“Come in!” Moreau said.
It was one of the Operations NCOs. “Ma'am, there's someone here to see you. Says you're an old Academy friend.”
Moreau looked at her CO. She shrugged and said, “Okay.”
The NCO stood aside and Major Paula Sanford came into the office. She had been navigator on Puncher 42, a flight that Moreau had led twenty-one months earlier into the Soviet Maritime Provinces, and hadn't come back. Moreau's jaw dropped, and the first words out of her mouth were, “I thought you were dead.”
“Is that a way to greet a classmate?” Sanford said, taking off her leather flight jacket.
Cassidy stood up and muttered, “I'll leave the two of you to chat.” Then he slithered out the door.
Moreau stood up. And the two hugged. “You made it,” Sanford told her friend and Academy roommate.
Moreau stepped back. Her friend's auburn hair was cut way short, and her uniform still didn't fit right. “Have a seat, Paula. My God, what happened?”
“Took a couple of flak hits, and probably killed or knocked out the flight deck crew. And the two of us down below had no contact with anyone topside, high terrain on the radar ahead, so Kyle Shelton and I took a chance with those downward firing seats.”
“What happened to him?” Moreau asked.
“I never did see him again,” Sanford replied. “Chances are, he's dead.”
Moreau nodded. “Luck of the draw: you made it, but he didn't.”
“Yeah. I landed in a tree; never did see the plane crash, though. After I got down, I just started walking.”
“Where to?”
“Tried to head east, towards the coast,” Sanford recalled. “Maybe I could steal a small boat and head to Japan. But, once daylight came, I found out I was in a military training area-the hard way.”
“What?” Moreau asked. “Of all the places to land in...”
“Yeah. And it was Spetsnatz training going on. They found me, tied me up, and marched me for three days before we found some of their umpires and turned me over to them.”
“And the umpires turned you over to the GRU,” Moreau said. It wasn't a question.
“Right on that. They took me to Khabavarosk-”
“Far East Military District HQ,” Moreau commented.
“Yep, and the GRU there wasn't happy to see me, because I was SAC,” Sanford said. “The Viets must've taught them the rope torture, because I went through it, several times. I told them we flew from Taipei, instead of Kadena, and gave them stuff from Jane's, and they were satisfied with that. Then the KGB came.”
Moreau was surprised. “KGB?”
Her friend nodded. “Yeah. They wanted to know if we were dropping agents, SF teams, supplies to the same, that sort of thing. I tried to tell them no, we don't do that, but they weren't listening. Then one of the GRU guys comes in and I guess he told them what a B-52 can and can't do. Then they left. But not before they had me chained facing the wall and turned my back and buttocks into hamburger with a rubber truncheon.”
“Bastards,” Moreau said. “KGB...hope those animals paid for what they did.”
“Yeah, and the GRU fellas too,” Sanford replied. “Then they put me in a railroad car, the only prisoner in the cattle car, and off to the west we went. Five days, with two meals a day of Kasha, half-stale bread, and a cup of water. The only good thing was I had the bucket all to myself. Then the train stopped, and they pulled me out. Camp 606.”
“Where?” Moreau got up to grab an ONC chart of the Soviet Far East.
“About halfway between Irkutsk and Ulan-Ude,” Sanford said as Moreau unrolled the map. “Here,” she said, pointing to the location.
“So who was there?”
“Mostly Americans, some Canadians, a bunch of Chinese, and get this: one lone RAF Vulcan bomber copilot.” Sanford recalled. “About 5,000 in all. Well, after they processed me in, they put me in a women's barracks-there were a few hundred of us, and I was just another prisoner.”
Moreau looked at her friend. “So what'd they make you do?”
“After I told the POWs what was going on with the war, that we were winning, and pushing them back, I got put on a work detail filling in bomb craters on the railroad for a while, then out cutting trees for firewood and the carpenter's shop, stuff like that. Why? Because I was a B-52 crew member.”
“Their way of getting back at you,” Moreau noted.
“Right on that. And the guards were generally first-class animals. Beatings, outdoor floggings for breaking camp rules, things like that. One guard said I dissed him, and had me thrown into solitary for a while. Just an excuse for him and his buddies to come in.....” Sanford paused, remembering the horror of that night.
“Say no more, Paula,” Moreau said. “I get the idea.”
“The shrinks say talking helps. Anyway, after a few months, I wound up working in the camp farm, and did that the rest of the time.”
“Any of us come over the camp?” Moreau asked.
“Yeah. Once in a while, we'd see a Buff or a Bone come over and waggle its wings. One time, a Bone did a high-speed flyby, and a Vulcan came over once. That gave us hope, Cindy. Were you in one of those?” Asked Sanford.
“I'll check my logbook to make sure, but I probably was,” Moreau said. “When did they release you?”
“They didn't. We woke up one morning in October, and the guards were gone. All of them. We stripped the armory, grabbed all the food and medical supplies, and started walking east,” Sanford told her friend.
“What?”
“Yeah, next camp we came across was full of political prisoners-people from the Ukraine, the Baltics, the 'stans, you name it.” Sanford said. “Some of 'em wanted to come with us, but others, they wanted to go home, and headed west, so they did. Then we hijacked a couple of trains, and when we got to Ulan-Ude, we grabbed a few more.”
Moreau sat there, fascinated. “Anybody object?”
Sanford laughed. “The Loyalists and the Rebels were busy fighting it out, and nobody was willing or able. So we took whatever we wanted, and kept on going. Only twenty-five miles or so a day, given the shape of the track, poorly rebuilt bridges, that sort of thing. Took us four months to get to Khabavarosk.”
“Doing some fighting on the way, negotiating for safe passage with locals, the Rebels wanting your hardware for their own use, all of that.” Moreau said.
“All of the above,” Sanford remembered. “When we got to Khabavarosk, the Rebels were calling themselves the Army of the Far East Republic, and they had another 30,000 POWs on their hands, wondering what to do. Then some JGSDF officer came.”
Moreau was stunned. “Japanese?”
“You got it. He said the FER had received recognition from Japan, and that he was told about us, and that all the POW camps in the region would be emptied, and everyone transported to Nakhodka for transit to Japan, and then turned over to the U.S. Military.”
“And that's what happened.” Moreau said.
“That's it. I rode one of the ferries that usually goes between Japan and South Korea, to Niigata, and that's where the Repatriation Teams were set up. Medical checks, intelligence debriefs, all of that. And all the food we could eat. Then a C-141 to McChord, and then back home to Michigan.” Sanford said.
“Now you're on convalescent leave, right?”
“Yeah, and I've got six months of that, they told me. And I'm using each minute of it, Cindy.”
“You deserve it. Along with everybody else who came out.” Moreau said. “And after that?”
Her friend grinned. “I'm staying in. Hell, Cindy, this is the first time we've been in a war where we're keeping a lot of the wartime force structure around. How about you?”
“I don't know, to be honest,” Moreau said. She showed her the letters from Boeing, McDonnell Douglas, United, Northwest, and the others.
“Believe me, Cindy, you and I are bomber drivers. It's what we're good at.” Sanford said, looking at her classmate with a deadly serious look in her eyes. “Believe me, you're not cut out to be a company pilot, just doing check flights on new birds. And you'll be bored out of your mind driving 747s with snobby celebrities in First Class, Executives in Business, and whiny tourists in coach, along with the drunken sports team every once in a while. You'd be looking for a re-up officer in six months, wanting back in.”
Moreau looked at her friend. And she knew that Paula was dead-on. “You know what? You're probably right.” She took the job offers and the half-written letter and promptly turned them into confetti.
Right then, Colonel Cassidy came walking by and saw the shower of torn up paper. He couldn't resist looking in, and asking, “What was that?”
Moreau looked at Paula, then her CO. “Bad decisions that I didn't have to make. Just letting you know: I'm re-upping.”
“Suits me just fine,” Cassidy said. “I'll swear you in.”
“No, Dad will,” Moreau replied. “No debate or discussion.”
Cassidy nodded. He knew General Moreau was very proud of his daughter, and something like this, he'd want to do it. “Fair enough.” He looked at Moreau. “This came for you.” He handed her a letter. It was from the personnel office at SAC.
She opened it, and found that if she wanted to be promoted to Lieutenant Colonel and become eligible for squadron command, she'd have to attend one of the war colleges. She looked at her CO, who had taken command before that requirement had reasserted itself. “Well...after I re-up, it's off to Maxwell.”
“War college?” Sanford asked.
“You got it.”
“Peacetime Air Force strikes again,” Cassidy noted. “I'll bet that Major Sanford has a similar letter waiting when she gets back home.”
“No doubt,” Sanford said.
“Anyway,” Cassidy said, “Moreau, take the rest of the day off. You two have a lot to talk about. And Major Sanford?”
“Yes?”
“There's some squadron mates of yours still in the 325th. I'm sure they'd like to know you've come back from the dead,” Cassidy told Sanford.
“Tomorrow, if you don't mind, Colonel,” Sanford replied. “Two classmates have some more catching up to do.”
Cassidy nodded, and both Moreau and Sanford headed on out. Before they got into Moreau's Jeep, Moreau asked Sanford, “Lunch in Spokane, shopping, whatever?”
“Fine by me. As long as there's no borscht, Kasha, or anything else Russian.”
“That's easy to arrange.” Moreau said, putting the jeep into gear, and heading for the main gate.